


The Dump Site

by Anon_E_Miss



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Child Abuse, F/M, Implied Mind Rape, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mech Preg (Transformers), Mind Rape, Noble AU, Past Rape/Non-con, Various Bullshittery, barbarian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 33,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27456709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anon_E_Miss/pseuds/Anon_E_Miss
Summary: A mass collection of one shots, serial ficlets, etc going back a few years from my Tumblr. Some will continue. Some will not. Some will have smut. Some will not. Those with pairings outside of Jazz/Prowl will be marked.A special thanks to star-of-flame-eternal for their work putting this junk into order for me.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl, assorted others
Comments: 84
Kudos: 78





	1. Dark Praxus

The restrained enforcer remained as unresistant of his stasis cuffs and shackles as he had the first time Jazz had seen him. It could not be said that the drone was relaxed, in fact his posture was absolutely rigid. As the operative turned interrogator scanned the small and secure interview room that served as the Praxian enforcer’s cell, he noted the energon cube sitting on the table in front of the preprog enforcer; it was completely untouched. Jazz frowned and he re-calibrated his visor to take a more in depth scan of the captive’s frame. To his consternation, his scans showed that the mech’s fuel levels were approaching critically low levels.

  
A question nibbled at the back of Jazz’s processor and he walked around the table and lifted the cube. It was almost certainly the same one that had been sitting on the table during their last interrogation. The fluid energon inside had formed a thick film, as only stale energon did. The Polihexian twisted the cube in his servos and watched the mech. There were no signs of the desperate hunger the captive enforcer had to have been feeling. Though the preprog watched him, his cold optics were focused on Jazz’s faceplates, not on the cube. With the stasis cuffs in place, there was no way for the drone to hold the cube and the saboteur wondered if his jailers, Autobots, not Praxians at this point, had actually thought of that. Angry with the fate of Althihex, had they placed the cube close but hopelessly out of reach on purpose?

  
“This cube’s been sittin’ a long time,” Jazz said, conversationally. He received no response but this came as no surprise. The mech was choosy over what he consider within his dignity to answer. “Enforcer 093426, you can’t tell me ya aren’t hungry. Have they kept your cuffs on the whole time?”

  
“My jailers have removed my cuffs for a total of seven joor each mega-cycle,” the pre-prog replied in the same monotone shared by all the Praxian pre-prog enforcers. Unlike forged mechanisms, who’s frames forged within the frames of their originators, pre-progs, also called cold-constructs were mass manufactured, with identical frames powered by second-tier sparks taken from Vector Sigma.

  
“Then why haven’t you drunk this?” The Polihexian asked. “Fool’s Energon, or not are you really in the position to be choosy?”

  
“I have not been given permission to drink,” the enforcer replied. There was no affect in his voice, he was not capable of emotion, like all pre-prog dones. Yes, there was something in the drone’s posture that made Jazz think the Praxian enforcer thought he was an idiot.

  
“Seriously, mech?” Jazz scoffed. “You single-handedly rerouted the Autobot advance by hacking into the datanet, ‘n sendin’ them off towards Nova Cronum. You sure as Pit didn’t have permission to do that.”

  
“That was a different matter,” the enforcer replied. Naturally, he made no move to elaborate. This drone made absolutely no sense. The Praxian pre-programmed Enforcers were classed as state of the art drones, rather than cold-constructs. They had sparks, failed creations of Vector Sigma, merely pure energy, these second-tier sparks were not emotion centres like first-tier or standard sparks. The fact that this drone had independently hacked the datanet, the fact that he had had the inspiration to do so was what Autobot Command found so troubling. That the Praxians seemed less troubled by this development, was also a concern.

  
“How is it different?” The saboteur asked. “You haven’t been hacked, so we know the 'Cons didn’t get to you that way. So either you worked alone, or you had orders from inside the enforcers.”

  
“I was given no command to reroute the advance,” the Praxian pre-grog said. “I have received no orders regarding the Autobots, at any point.”

  
“But you did it,” Jazz said. “You did it, but you won’t drink a cube because no one’s given you permission.”

  
Again, the drone elected not to answer. Though he was incapable of emotion, he mimicked stubbornness with considerable skill. Jazz put the cube in his subspace, it was beyond drinking at this point, so far as he was concerned at least. He had no interest in rescheduling this interrogation session. If the Enforcer did not get energon soon, he would be in stasis, and the saboteur had no idea just what fall out might come from that. The Praxians were very clear that they wanted their drone back. He put two digits to the side of his helm and commed the guard on the other side of the door.

  
“Get me a cube of Fool’s Energon.”

  
“He won’t touch it,” the reply came.

  
“Humour a mech,” Jazz replied, and he removed his digits, severing the call. As he waited, Jazz watched the pre-prog. The longer he waited, and the longer he looked, the Polihexian found small signs of the Enforcer’s state. His optics were dimmer, the gleam of his finish duller, still he sat as straight and as perfect as he had when he had taken is seat in that chair.

  
Jazz heard the guard’s approached before the war-frame reached the door. The faint sound of the code being entered followed and the Polihexian stuck out his servo. Ironfist took one step into the door, optic glowing bright as he saw Jazz and his open servo. He moved to pass the cube over but paused at the sight of the Enforcer, seeing the pre-prog was still restrained, his shoulders relax.

  
“Thank you,” Jazz said, gently taking the cube from the Autobot’s servos. “So, I’ve got this… Now get.”

  
“If you’re going to released the cuffs…” Ironfist argued.

  
“Nothin’ personal or anything, but I don’t need your help to manage a half starved pre-prog,” the saboteur repled. He herded the guard through the doorway and latched it without another thought.

  
The operative vented and shook his helm. Warriors often still forgot that mech of his sort did quite well on their own. Jazz turned back to the enforcer, and found him watching him, with a focus the Polihexian had not seen in him before. Caught off guard and unwilling to show it, Jazz walked to the drone’s side.

  
“Don’t cross me,” he warned as he deactivated the stasis cuffs, and tossed them across the table. “I’ll kill you before you can take another vent.”

  
“Consider me warned,” the pre-prog replied. Though he reminded himself of it time and again, Jazz kept on thinking of this enforcer as a sentient mech, rather than an intelligent machine. Perhaps, that was where the feeling of unease came from. Had a 'Con made that remark, Jazz would have taken it for sarcasm, but this was a pre-prog; he should not have been capable of sarcasm. The Praxians had described this drone as a state of the art construction. Jazz found him eerie. Machines were not meant to mimic living mechanisms. And still, the drone did not reach for the cube.

  
“Do you need an engraved invitation?” Jazz asked, exasperation setting in. The mech gave the cube a cursory glance and looked back up at his interrogator.

  
“The fact remains, I do not have permission to drink,” he replied.

  
“For Primus’ sake, I give you permission,” the saboteur exclaimed. “The enforcers gave authority of you over to me, so drink!.

  
With a slow, perhaps even tentative servo, the pre-prog reached for the cube. His digits curled around it, and he stared at it for a long klik. Jazz watched, wondering just what he was seeing. It seemed as though the pre-prog did not know what to do with the cube. Perhaps he just did not yet have the strength to life it; the affects of stasis cuffs could linger. Finally, under the Polihexian’s watchful optics, the enforcer lifted the cube to his lipplates, and took a small sip.

  
He promptly aspirated it. Secondary vents opened as his primaries choked. Jazz snatched the cube up before his charge could spill it. Alarm flared in his processor. It only took a klik for the pre-prog to regain his composure and if Jazz did not know better, he would have thought that the enforcer looked annoyed.

  
“Have you forgotten how to drink?” Jazz asked with a small chuckle.

  
“It has been forty-two vorn since I last drank a cube,” the pre-prog said. “It would appear my primary fuel intake no longer functions.”

  
“You haven’t drunk a cube in how long?” The saboteur asked, and his optics brightened behind his visor. “How in the Pit have you fuelled?”

  
The mech looked down at his chassis, and Jazz followed his gaze. To the Polihexian’s surprise, the secondary fuel intake, located directly over the pre-prog’s fuel take on his abdomen, was uncovered. Keeping his optics on the enforcer, Jazz touched the valve, normally sealed except when utilized by a medic and found that it no longer even had a cover. In fact, the edges were scarred.

  
“What in the name of Primus,” he swore. “What have they been doin’ with you?”

  
“I am the Core,” the enforcer replied. “I have been stationed in the Tactical Hub beneath Enforcer Command for three thousand, four hundred and eighty six stellar-cycles. The Hub supplies all the necessities for my upkeep.”

  
“You were plugged into your work station?” Jazz asked, both horrified and stunned. “For over three millenia?”

  
“Yes,” the pre-prog confirmed.

  
“That’s…. that’s…” the saboteur stammered.

  
“It would be horrifying, were I a mech,” the enforcer interrupted. “Except I am not.”

  
“Are you?” Jazz asked. “Are you not?”

  
“I hardly have the authority to claim otherwise,” the pre-prog replied. Jazz shook his helm, and at the same time, stepped back and placed his digits to his helm.

  
“Get me Ratchet, get me Ratchet now.”

  
***

  
Jazz stood outside the “cell” doors, scowling at the guards as they murmured at each other. They thought he was insane. It raised his hackles that they dared to theorize together just how this pre-prog or some other filth might have corrupted his processor. He was Special Operations, and Primus only knows what sorts of mechanism and things Jazz had run across in his vorns of service. As if a drone could hack him! The glitches whispered together, thinking he could not hear them. There were be payback for this insult. Later.

  
“You do realize I could still hear you even if you were on the other side of slaggin’ door?” He hissed, and gestured to the door behind his back. The cluster of guards stammered incoherently.

  
“Jazz.”

  
The saboteur jerked his helm to see Optimus approaching, alongside Ratchet. Internally he berated himself for allowing his temper to distract him. Fools forgotten, the saboteur turned his attention to the Autobot leader.

  
“For the record, I haven’t lost my processor,” he said.

  
“Yes, you have,” Ratchet replied, sarcastically. “Vorns ago.”

  
“The Lord of Praxus was concerned when I raised the question of an examination,” Optimus explained. “The Praxians guard their security zealously. If the Enforcer Core’s schematics were to fall into the wrong servos…”

  
“I’ve got this, Prime,” Jazz insisted. “Me and Ratch can keep a secret.”

  
“I trust you,” the Matrix-Bearer replied. “It is the Lord’s protests that have convinced me to allow Ratchet to exam the prisoner.”

  
“You think they’re hidin’t somethin’?” The saboteur asked. “I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

  
“I want him restrained the entire time,” Optimus said.

  
“Boss Bot, he’s been chained up the entire he’s been here, even for recharge,” Jazz said. “I’ll be right next to Ratchet through the whole thing.”

  
“Crowd me and I’ll put a dent in your helm,” Ratchet replied. “Everyone here seems to be forgetting that this pre-prog hasn’t actually lifted a digit against anyone. Everything he’s done has been through the data-net.”

  
“I will be waiting for Ratchet’s verdict,” the Prime said. “Go.”

  
Jazz typed the code into the door and stepped in even as it was still opening. Ratchet followed on his heels. The moment the medic set optics on the Enforcer, his engine growled. The saboteur knew that sound well. It was reserved for patients he deemed foolish, and saboteur almost pitied the pre-prog who watched Ratchet stalk over with unwavering optics.

  
“What’s your designation?” Ratchet asked.

  
“I am Enforcer 093…” the pre-prog began.

  
“Your designation, not your serial number,” the medic interrupted. Ratchet held the pre-prog’s optics as Jazz looked on, curious.

  
“Prowl,” he replied, keeping the medics gaze, when he noticed the Polihexian’s visor focuses on him, he caste his optics to the table.

  
“Even drones have nicknames, Jazz,” Ratchet chided the saboteur. “And if this one’s a drone, I’ll eat my wrench.”

  
“Ratch?” Jazz asked.

  
“Cursory scans show systems comparable to the standard Praxian frame-type,” the medic said. “Prowl, open you diagnostic port for me.”

  
The Enforcer, hesitated for a klik. A soft puff from his vents, with his helm still bowed, he relented. A small panel twisted away, revealing a port at the back of his neck. Every mechanism Jazz had ever met had this same port, in this same spot. He supposed drones likely hand them as well, and yet… Jazz watched keenly as Ratchet unspooled cabling from inside his forearm and inserted the end into the Enforcers… Prowl’s port. 

  
“Grant me access to your firewalls,” Ratchet ordered. “Bring up your self-diagnostics for me, and your system’s log. Good. I’ll take care of your fuel warnings in a klik. Low coolant too, hmm? Yes, your frame deactivated your primary intake after they were out of use for a dozen stellar-cycles. Reactivating it now. Good. Now what are these errors? ATS? What the Pit is that? Prowl!”

  
Ratchet reared back, and Jazz leapt forward, yanking the medics cable from the pre-prog’s port without hesitation. Prowl, as Ratchet called him, winced and then stilled. Jazz ignored him in favour of Ratchet. The medic shuddered, his vents heaved and his platting clattered. Just as the saboteur was about to take the Enforcer apart, Ratchet pulled himself together.

  
“Those are some nasty booby traps,” he hissed, rubbing his forehelm. “I’m fine, Jazz. I just poked something I shouldn’t have.”

  
“My apologies, Medic,” Prowl said.

  
“My fault, should’ve known better,” Ratchet replied. “Relax, Jazz. The Praxian’s have some traps built into his processor to protect their investment.”

  
“Explain that one to me,” Jazz ordered.

  
“The ATS is a collection of tactical systems and processors,” the Enforcer explained. “It is why I am the Core.”

  
“It’s a fragging mess,” the medic grumbled. “You are a fragging mess. But before we argue on that one, you need that cube.”

  
Ratchet stood, old joints creaking as he did. Though the medic chastised his patients for poor frame maintenance, Ratchet was often lax on the care of his own frame. He took the cube off the table, then turned and glowered and the saboteur.

  
“Don’t look at me like that, mech,” Jazz replied, servos up in a placating gesture. “Standard practice.”

  
“He needs real energon,” the medic snapped. “Medical grade, really. And coolant. Never mind his repair nanites are tanking.”

  
“Have you forgotten this is the mech that sent the Autobot army on a wild cybergoose chase, leaving Althihex to the smelter.”

  
“He’s spend millenia in a basement cage, he made a mistake,” Ratchet argued.

  
“I made no mistake,” the pre-prog stated, bluntly. His glyphs silenced the other mechs’ argument. “Althihex was already lost. I diverted the Autobots to prevent them from walking blindly to their slaughter.”

  
“What are you talkin’ about?” Jazz asked.

  
“The Decepticons captured Althihex six orns before the call for help was made to Iacon,” Prowl explained. “In the time they held the base, the Decepticons infected their hostages with Cosmic Rust. In case the army laying in wait outside Altihex’s walls failed to crush the advancing Autobots, the infection waiting within the base would sweep through the ranks before they realized it was happening. With a 56.44% chance of the infection being carried back to Iacon.”

  
“You led them right to the Decepticons,” the saboteur pointed out.

  
“Into the Decepticon flank,” the Enforcer replied. “The weakest point of the battalion. The Decepticons were defeated with minimal casualties. When the Decepticon retreat began, in order to hide their use of viral warfare, they bombed the base.”

  
“You could have warned us,” Jazz argued.

  
“Enough,” Ratchet ordered. “He needs fuel and it isn’t going to be this slag.”

  
Jazz should have intervened when the medic pulled a cube of medical grade from his subspace, but he stayed silent. What the Enforcer was saying had the ring of truth to it. It would not be difficult to prove if it was the truth either. For the time being, he would allow the pre-prog the benefit of a little trust and a little mercy, and he thought Optimus would approve. Still, the saboteur was not prepared to trust too easily and he did not remove the stasis cuffs from Prowl’s servos.

  
Ratchet turned his back to the Polihexian and held the cube to the pre-prog’s lipplates as he gently cradle his helm. It was rare to see the medic treat a patient so tenderly. It was generally a sign that they were too fragile for his tough love. Slowly, the shackled Enforcer drained the cube and when it was finished, whispered a glyph of thanks.

  
“It was not my intent to be discovered,” Prowl said. “Had I revealed that I had connected the Hub to the data-net and accessed the grids of every city, I would have been destroyed.”

  
“But I caught wind too fast,” the Polihexian replied. “And you couldn’t cover your tracks fast enough. Why did you do it, hack the 'net, in the first place.”

  
“Stare at the same four walls, at the same screens long enough, you might get bored too, Jazz,” Ratchet interjected. “Tacticians need to know, it’s the nature of the function. Am I right, Prowl?”

  
“That is as accurate an explanation as I might offer,” the pre-prog replied.

  
“If I can find evidence that you’re right, you just might make it out of this in one piece,” Jazz said. “You outta have said somethin’.”

  
“I have revealed the ability, and the inclination to think for myself,” Prowl countered. “Whatever your conclusions, when I am returned to Praxus, I will be terminated.”

“Get Prime in here,” Ratchet ordered. Jazz remained where he stood, earning him a snarl. “Haven’t you figured it out? He isn’t a pre-prog. Odds are, none of them are. Their cold-constructs with programming to dumb them down so they can pass as drones. They don’t have pseudo-sparks, they have real sparks.”

  
“Ratchet, that’s insane,” Jazz tried to argue. “Did it occur to you that he might be lying?”

  
“I am telling you, he is a sentient mechanism, not a smart drone,” the medic hissed. “The fact that we even try and pretend there’s a distinction is dicey at best. He’s a mech, Jazz. Praxus might be running one of the biggest slavery rings in Cybertronian history.”

  
Note: I was intending to turn this into a full size fic, but the world is a bit cumbersome, and I haven’t had the mind to hash it out. Maybe some day.


	2. Dark Praxus

The one that they called the Core sat in the HUB, and watched through the many holo projections as life unfolded in Praxus. Core was not his designation, it was his duty. The moniker long ago assigned him by his comrades had not been spoken since he had first sat in the HUB. It would not be spoken again. Through the HUB’s projections, the designation-less Enforcer could see the bright sky of the light-cycle, and a million or so Praxians go about their lives. Most did not notice the cameras that recorded their every mega-cycle. Apart from private dwellings, there was no open space or building in all of Praxus that did not possess multiple surveillance and security cameras. Though he could not watch them all at once, the Core could go back quartexes, even stellar-cycles, and occasionally vorns, into the archives. Each camera had its own designated archival space in the Enforcer archives.

There was no need to physically travel to the archives, he who was called the Core could access any database necessary for either Enforcer investigations or tactical planning from within the HUB. In fact, he had not stepped a ped outside of the HUB in a millenia, not since he had become the Core of Praxus. Occasionally, he wondered if his legs would even work after so long immobile, it hardly matter. The Core would not leave the HUB until he expired or his service was no longer satisfactory. He who had been Core before had produced only two severely unsatisfactory strategies, culminating in failed Enforcer operations, before he had been retired.

Even with the repair nanites constantly pumped from the HUB, eventually a drone’s components degraded, eventually their systems became obsolete. That was all they were, after all, drones., not mech. Their frames mimicked the Praxian mechanisms they served, but their were only sparkless copies. Sparkless, and yet deep in his chassis, he who was Core now felt terrible pain when he watched one of his Enforcers fall. Early in his tenure, he had ceased to watch when Enforcers were retired, it hurt too much. It should not have hurt, drones need not have sparks, therefore they could not feel, and yet… And yet when he had been a standard Enforcers it had grieved him to see a comrade fall, it had grieved all of them. Though he had never experienced it for himself, there were drones in their number that had paired off in a manner that could be called bonding, despite their lack of sparks, these drones loved.

Few outwardly questioned their status as drones. They were universally praised as the epitome of drone technology, surpassing even that of the Crystal City. The technology was heavily guarded, and he who was the Core had never seen a new enforcer come online, only found his call sign in the manifest once he been entered into duty. From that moment, his relay was connected to the one implanted in Prowl’s processor, allowing him to access all that they saw and felt, no matter where they went. This was how enforcer exercises were executed so flawlessly. Praxian enforcers moved as one because one voice was directing each at the precise same instant.

That relay would be deactivated prior to retirement, so the Core had never hurt or felt any of retired enforcer’s final moments. Late in the dark-cycle, when recharge eluded him, the Core wondered if they felt fear or pain at the instant of their termination. There was certainly fear when they were damaged beyond affordable repair, when they lay waiting to see if they would continue to exist. Prowl hated those joors, when he waited with them. Often their systems leaked dry, without pain blockers or any basic comfort, before the decision was ever made. Perhaps then, the decision had been made in those cases, and rather than spent a klik terminating the severely damaged enforcers, the Commanders elected to wait for them to expire.

He who was Core now often wondered if his predecessor had not become tired of his duties, tired of witnessing his comrades deactivate without a gram of concern from their commanders. Perhaps, he had been tired of sitting, locked in the HUB, watching, only ever watching, without even being able to speak to another enforcer faceplate to faceplate. That drone had served five millenia in the HUB before being retired, he who was Core now had only served a fifth of that time, and he was already tired.

Tired might not have been the most accurate descriptor, rather he was bored. For vorns he had amused himself by imaging the lives of those mechanisms he had taken special interest in, a single procreator with a young sparkling, verging on younglinghood, lovers from different Praxian castes struggling to keep their relationship a secret. In the early stellar-cycles this habit had eased the loneliness that had come from being, for all intents and purposes, cut off from his comrades. In recent stellar-cycles, this habit no longer helped. The stories he had created in his processor were fiction, rather than reality, and he needed reality.

Thankfully, he had found it. During his endless watch, he had uncovered a weakness in the data-net’s firewalls, not just Praxus’ data-net, which he already had free access to, but that of all of Cybertron. According to regulations, he should have reported the weakness to his commanders, not take advantage of it, but he was brutally bored, brutally alone, and the opportunity to know more was too tempting to deny. He could never be more than he was. He could never even be less. When his service as the Core was no longer enough for Enforcer Command, he would be retired, not returned to the street. The Hub was all he would ever touch, but it would not be all he would ever know.

His explorations into the all encompassing data-net were only small at first. Duty came before curiosity, and there were orns where he never got a the chance to see how deep, how far he could explore, what knowledge he could snap up. It was almost an addiction. He worked feverishly, even faster than was he previous habit, but staggered uploading his tactics, or analyses to Command. The spare moments these efforts stole him were priceless. Eventually, someone else would discover the vulnerability in the data-net and plug it.

When he awoke from every recharge cycle thereafter, the Core sought out that precious weakness, always anxious, always fearful that it had been found by another and corrected. Every light-cycle he felt a surge of relief when he found the data-net of Cybertron still at his digit tips. He was too clever a drone, something the Core had concluded of himself early on in his existence. It was not enough to serve his function, good never be; he had questions, too many questions, and enough caution to keep them to himself. The Enforcer Commanders, the forged masters of the pre-progs, would not abide questioning by a drone. Drones that did not obey, drones that made trouble did not survive. In stories passed from on model of pre-prog enforcer to the next, the Core had learned for rebellious enforcers, curious enforcer, enforcers who had all been retired before they could make trouble. These stories had not been shared to embolden the Core and his batch-mates, they had been shared to caution them, to teach them fear. They were not meant to be capable of fear, and yet Prowl knew that all pre-prog enforcers feared the optics of the Commanders falling on their helms.

In the glow of his holo-imagers, the Core ventured into yet another new corner of the data-net. It was almost intoxicating. He had finally seen beyond the borders of Praxus, even beyond the atmosphere of Cybertron itself. Through the weakness in the data-net the Core had observed conversations of an ambassador from the Senate in Iacon, to a world called Caminus. The only world thus known that possessed the femme-frametype by forged means, he had been especially fascinated by the descriptions and images the ambassador had shared with other mechanisms. That ambassador had now returned to Caminus for another posting, and the Core desired to, even needed to find something else to observe, to know.

Kaon was the stronghold of the Decepticons. Neutral Praxus feared them far more than the Autobots, the Core was no different. If ever the Decepticon armies came for Praxus, if the enforcers could not hold them back, if Command thought the Hub would be discovered, they would destroy it, and destroy the Core rather than allow his capture. The Autobots, Command appeared certain, would never pry deep enough into the Neutral city-state’s affairs to identify the Hub, or its operator, and so the Core only felt curiousity towards the Prime’s army. He feared the Decepticons. The images he had witnessed through the data-net had only fed that fear, and the Core continued to hesitate to investigate Kaon’s data-net specifically.

Altihex was a safer subject of study, and yet at first glance, it was decidedly dull. The media stories repeated mega-cycle after mega-cycle, various security feeds the Core found seemed to cycle endlessly. Mechanisms had attempted this deception in Praxus as well, altering security feeds to repeat in a loop, instead of recording new video. Every bit of enforcer programming in him told the Core that something was amiss. Caution would have dictated that he stay away from what ever criminal enterprise might be responsible. Instead, the Core investigated the feeds, searching for the source of the recording, looking for a means of returning to a live-action feed, if only temporarily. It took the work of several mega-cycles, hacking was not actually one of the Core’s great strengths, but after joors of work, he watched a live-feed coming from Altihex’s Autobot base.

The city was dead. Broader swaths of Altihex might have remained alive, but the base and the city that held it was dead. Rusted frames lay everywhere that Prowl could see. It was not merely a case of greyed frames left exposed to the elements, this was an infection, Cosmic Rust to be precise. How had such an aggressive virus appeared in Altihex without a whisper. How had it eliminated a base with a distress call to Autobot Headquarters in Iacon?

It took the Core only a short investigation to discover the source of the infection. Decepticons were camped outside the wall of Altihex, waiting. He looked back to Iacon, and found no evidence of a rescue mission, no evidence that they were aware that Decepticons were laying siege over one of their bases, a base where no Autobot still remained amongst the functional. This not correct, this was deeply wrong, and whatever strategy the Decepticons had formulated, they had not finished executing it yet. Troubled by his observations, the Core took on a morbid vigil, as he fulfilled his duties as the Enforcer Core, the Praxian drone kept an image capture of the Altihexian dead up on a holo-imager. The walls of Altihex were keeping the plague contained for now, clearly the work of the besiegers. Something would have to be done to keep it from spreading beyond Altihex whenever the Decepticons revealed the next stage of their plan.

“Althihex to Iacon… Iacon…”

This distress call woke the Core from recharge. It could not have come from the Autobot base. The Praxian Enforcer narrowed cocked his helm as he stared at his holo-imagers, and watched the message play out, even as the Autobots in Iacon did the same. There was no visual image, only thick static, and a frantic voice. Perhaps the message was authentic, in that when the Decepticons had actually engaged Altihex, perhaps the Decepticons had recorded it even as they had blocked it’s transmission. If it was authentic, the voice on the recording was that of a mech that had been dead for orns. It was a disturbing thought.

“Decepticons… Help.”

The answer from Iacon was immediate as orders flew over every channel to mobilize battalions, and to race to the base’s rescue. Horrific understanding dawned on the enforcer tactician. The Decepticons meant to expose the whole Autobot army to a rust plague. Digit moving as fast as his formidable processor worked, the Core diverted the false message to the Hub and manipulated it before releasing it to the Autobots. A rust plague could wipe out a massive portion of the Cybertronian population, the Enforcer’s own city was at risk. This was the reasoning he gave himself as he released the edited message for transmission.

“Decepticons… To Nova Cronum… Nova Cronum… Siege… Coordinates…”

Again Iacon’s Communication-Grid was a light with transmissions, diverting the battalions being mobilized to the east. Before they reached Nova Cronum they would find the Decepticon reserves waiting to support the Altihexian besiegers. Specifically they would find the Decepticons poorly guarded flank. Ruthlessly, the Core released another modified message, this one to the Decepticon reenforcements, warning them of a threat from the Tagon Heights. With their optics turned east, they would not see the Autobots coming from the west. It would be a slaughter, as the Decepticons had planned, but they would be the ones facing the sword.


	3. Transit of Sparks

The scent of death filled the small outpost. Jazz felt his intakes stall. He had scented this stench many times before, but it was always different when you expected a friend to be laying at the end of the trail. A greyed frame came into view, its spark chamber rusted away by a well aimed acid round. Prowl’s handiwork, not Prowl. The saboteur only allowed himself a small flicker of relief. His friend was not answering his comms so he was still just as likely to be seriously damaged if not dead.

Jazz turned the corner and found his quarry. Kneeling helm down in a growing pool of mechfluid, the only sign of life from the Praxian was the fitful twitching of his doorwings. There was an ugly wide gash in one doorwing but the no doubt painful wound could not have been the source of all this energon. Prowl sluggishly raised his helm as the Polihexian knelt in front of him.

“Jazz,” the normally stoic mech’s voice came as a weak and pained rasp. His dull optics brightened with relief.

“What happened to ya, Prowler?” Jazz asked. In the same vent ge opened a commlink to Ratchet. -“Gotta get over here Ratch. Prowl’s hurt bad.”

-“I’m wrist deep in ‘Jack and surrounded by Cons.” Ratchet replied, sounded impatient and exasperated. “It’s going to be a few breams.”

-“Don’t think he’s got breams,” the Polihexian said.

-“Tell him to initiate stasis,” the medic ordered. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Prowl, buddy Ratch says ya gotta go into stasis lock,” Jazz told the slumped tactician.

“I cannot,” Prowl replied, eerily calm even with the agony in his voice.

“What, Prowl, ya gotta!” Jazz exclaimed. Arm shaking with the effort, Prowl took Jazz’s servo and put it agajnst his chassis. Instead of the curve of a bumper the saboteur felt the Praxian’s distended protoform. Stinky with energon coated the saboteur’s digits. The rim around the concave component was torn and straining to iris open as a large, smooth metal object pressed against it from inside.

“Stasis at this stage would be fatal to him,” the tactician grimly replied.

-“Ratchet, Prowl’s in emergence!” Jazz snapped over the comm.

-“You have to carry before you can enter emergence,” Ratchet replied, more exasperated than before.

-“Mech, I can feel the newspark under my digits,” the Polihexian said, starkly.

-“What?!” The medic asked with a curse. “Ask him what stage he’s in.”

“Prowl, what stage are you in?” Jazz asked.

“Teritary,” was the reply. Just as the saboteur relayed this information, Prowl spoke again through a ragged vent. “Secondary…”

-“It’s too fast!” Ratchet snapped. “He has to slow it down or he just might tear himself apart!”

"You gotta slow down or ya might kill yourself, Prowler,” Jazz ordered.

“Stasis lock imminent,” the tactician replied, grimly. “He will die inside me.”

Shaking with pain and exhaustion, Prowl braced his bloodied fists against the Polihexian’s shoulders and rested his helm on his chest. Shell shocked, Jazz put his servos between their frames and cupped the buckling opening to Prowl’s forge. He pressed his lipplates to the Praxian’s helm as Prowl took a long vent. With a primeval keen, the tactician forced his forge to iris open the rest of the way as he pushed the newspark from his frame. Task complete, Prowl collapsed against Jazz. Clutching the egg against his chassis, the saboteur gently lowered the Praxian to the floor. Prowl looked at him with dull optics. With shuddering intakes he said:

“Smokescreen… His designation…”

“Smokescreen,” Jazz repeated as the newspark unfurled against him.

“Keep Prime away,” Prowl ordered.

“Optimus?” The Polihexian asked. “He ain’t gonna hurt a bitlet.”

“Please…” it took all of the Praxian’s remaining to voice his plea.

“Whatever you want, Prowler,” Jazz promised. “I’ll keep him safe until Ratchet fixes you up.”

Prowl said nothing more, and he went limp, optics black, energon covered frame dulling, his extremities were beginning to grey. Stasis was not coming fast enough, and as the newling began to keen, Jazz looked to the dead mech only meters away. A long energon blade lay centimeters from his limp servo. The saboteur pushed his servo into Prowl’s chassis, alongside the tactician’s warped forge, and found the end of the vicious wound the blade had produced, through the Praxian’s doorwing, and deep inside his chassis. Feeling energon spurting from a primary line, Jazz pinched it closed. Heavy ped steps were coming towards them.

“Ratchet!” He screamed, and the newling cried.


	4. Transit of Sparks

Ratchet was not alone when he rounded the corner. The medic was flanked by mechs known almost exclusively as the Twins by those not close to them. Optimus Prime was a step behind them. Jazz only released the damaged line in Prowl’s chassis when Ratchet dropped to his knees opposite the Praxian’s frame from him. He felt a tingle as the medic ran his scanners over the newling the Polihexian was clutching. A grunt of approval was all the noise Ratchet made as he transformed his servos into tools and went to work in Prowl’s gaping chassis.

“Optimus, get outside and transformed,” the medic ordered. “Jazz, mechlings you’re with me.”

“What do you need us for?” Sideswipe asked. Staring anxiously at the downed tactician.

“I need your energon,” Ratchet replied. “But first, help me lift him. These patches aren’t going to hold if he’s jostled.”

With more care than anyone would have expected from a pair of ex-gladiators, they lifted Prowl from the floor. Though their chassis were immediately splashed with the Praxian’s mechfluids, the ever fastidious Sunstreaker made no complaint. Before Jazz could really process what was happening, he was stepping into the Prime’s trailer behind the Twins and Ratchet. Smokescreen whimpered against the Polihexian’s chassis, his tiny doorwings twitching fitfully. As soon as the Twins had placed Prowl down, Ratchet was back at work, cursing with increasing creativity at first before falling silent, the speed at which his servos worked took on a fiendish pace.

He paused only long enough to set up lines between Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Prowl, before going back to work. The silence was worse than any battle, any threat the medic had thrown, silence all seasoned Autobots learned sooner or later meant Ratchet was not confident in his ability to safe his patient, if he was not cursing you for getting injured than you were really in a bad way. Jazz was aware when Optimus rolled up a loading ramp, the medic did not raise his helm, or acknowledge it in anyway. The Prime made no attempt nor suggestion that Ratchet disembark with his patient. Until Ratchet said otherwise, Optimus’ trailer was his medbay.

“How’s the bitlet?” Ratchet asked after too long a silence.

“He’s quieted down,” Jazz replied. “Still fussin’ a bit.”

“Prowl’s spark rate dropping put him through a loop,” the medic said. “Based on his size, I’m guessing he’s stellar-cycles early. He’ll need some extra support but his spark's strong. Just keep him warm.“

“Why didn’t he wait?” Sideswipe asked, shifting his optics away from the injured Praxian to get his first real look at the newling. “Or go into stasis.”

“At this late stage in development, Prowl going into stasis lock would have caused the bitlet’s spark to extinguish with shock,” Ratchet explained, the tone had lost some of its gravity, left behind was respect. “Prowl made the conscious decision to rip his frame apart to save his newling.”

Smokescreen whined against Jazz’s chassis, and the saboteur reduced power to his fans and allowed his frame to run hotter. Cupping his servos around the tiny frame, he opened his EM field to bathe the newling in love and comfort. How could he not love the little mech when he had come from Prowl? He had questions, burning ones that could only be answered if, no when the Praxian woke up. For now he would focus on Smokescreen, and keep his promise to his dearest friend.


	5. Transit of Sparks

The mechs serving as his guards were fidgeting. Prowl ignored them with familiar ease. Sunstreaker was angry with Sideswipe, and annoyed with Prowl to be relegated to such a menial task rather than fighting as the front of the battle. Sideswipe had disobeyed orders on the last skirmish, however and was banned from the frontlines until his disciplinary term was complete. The generals had dug their peds in when Prowl had said that Sunstreaker would have to be stationed away from the front lines as well, but the Praxian tactician had countered their every argument. Split-spark twins were best utilized as a single unit. True, both mechs fought well on their own but they were several times for effective together and they were considerably less likely to end up on the casualties list when they stayed side by side.

  
The army was approaching the Decepticon operation in the Manganese mountains. Prowl watched every corner of his screens. It would have been more effective if the tactician had been at the scene himself, rather than in the small tactical centre but Prowl had stopped participating even behind the command lines thirty stellar-cycles earlier. His argument had been the he needed to direct the battle from all angles, Prime had agreed readily. But then the Prime had long made it clear that he distrusted Prowl’s judgment, and it was easier for him to sidestep the Praxian’s directives when he was not physically present to block him.

  
The effect on Prowl’s strategies had been negative, or rather the effect on the utilization of these strategies had been negative. As to be expected, the blame had fallen at the tactician’s peds, though he had regularly argued that the changes made to his plans by the review committee had been to blame. At least a good percentage of the time this was actually the case. Prime did not trust Prowl or his judgment and utilized the tactician’s very subordinates to scrutinize every strategy, and in doing so had undermined Prowl’s authority so completely that it had made remaining in service to the Autobots untenable.

  
He resisted the urge to put a supportive servo under the bulky armour over his chassis. Even with the jutting armour his protoform was becoming so distended with his hard working forge that soon there would be no hiding the changes to his frame. The only reason no one had noticed by this point was Prowl’s use of desks and datapads to disguise his condition.

There was no question he should have left service a dozen or two stellar-cycles ago but there had been so many important battles, so many narrowly averted disasters that Prowl had stayed on; and no even submitted his resignation as second in command of the Autobots and from the Autobots in general. At the turn of the next mega-cycle he would be a Neutral. The thought was more that a little distressing. Prowl knew the Twins were watching him and again resisted the urge to put a servo under his chassis as the newspark growing so quickly inside him did a flip.

The heavy Praxian should have been in his office sorting the last of his paperwork, this was his final mega-cycle of service after all, but Decepticon movements on the mountains had spurned the generals and the Prime to rush, and Prowl had insisted that he direct this final battle. It was, after all his strategy. Though the Primal Vanguard were following the “corrected” strategy the tactician had outright refused to accept. Typical. He could see disaster coming and as he ordered them to move into the formation he had specifically planned for, they balked. As they balked and dug their peds in Seekers flew in with strafing fire. None had held their weapon ready with their optics to the sky, and so they fell in large number. Those still standing fired at the fliers already swooping off towards the next target, now distracted from the danger on the ground, the Prime was unguarded.

“Sunstreaker, Sideswipe go to Prime,” Prowl ordered.

“Sir?” Sideswipe asked. The tactician did not bother to turn as he address the frontliner.

“The Primal Vanguard have fallen into disarray,” Prowl said. “Prime’s back is unguarded. ”

“We’ve got it,” Sunstreaker replied. “Let’s go Sideswipe!”

“We’ll lock the door!” The red twin promised. With that, Prowl was alone. He was absorbed in tbe battle, directing divisions forward or back to make up for the chaos of the Vanguard. Delta Magnus was a fool. The tactician shored up lines threatening to buckle under the Decepticon’s attack, and he watched with some pride as the Twins worked in their eerie synchrony and defended the Prime’s back. So focused on the battle Prowl did not detect the presence behind him until a blade tore through his doorwing at lodged in his back.


	6. Transit of Sparks

The moment the transport landed, Optimus was barrelling down the runway, only stopping when he arrived at the nearest door to the base/Palace’s medbay. Orderlies climbed into the trailer as soon as the Prime parked. Ratchet barked orders as he disconnected the energon lines connecting the Twins to the stricken Praxian and loaded Prowl onto the hovering stretcher. He was gone, racing beside the stretcher, the long stream of orders never ending.

“Jazz, bring the bitlet along,” the medic commanded without stopping. “Mechlings, don’t you dare push yourselves.”

Though not commanded to, the Twins followed Jazz into the base. With Smokescreen only finally settled, the saboteur walked quickly instead of running. The Twins kept pace, eerily silent. Those Sunstreaker was often quiet, Sideswipe never was. Jazz did not think he was capable of conservation so it was for the best. Mercifully, Optimus had elected to walk amongst the injured still arriving and disembarking from transports on the airfield.

“Bring the newling over here, Jazz,” First Aid called as they entered the busy medbay.

Medics hovered over the critical damaged as those that would hold waited, their pain numbed with patches. Hesitantly, though he could not explain why, the Polihexian did as he was ordered. When the intern reached out his servos, Jazz slowly, and gently pried the newling from his chassis and handed him to the medic in training. As soon as he was away from his resting place, Smokescreen let out a sharp cry.

“You’re alright little one,” First Aid crooned. “You three are… A mess. Why don’t you use the washracks here to decontaminate.”

He did not want to leave Smokescreen but Jazz was a mess, Prowl’s mech fluids covered his entired front half. The saboteur did not trust himself to speak and only nodded, as he gave the newling a long look. Smokescreen was shrieking as the intern examined him. Sunstreaker gave him a nudge with his shoulder and between him and his twin, Jazz was herded into the waskracks located to one side of the medbay.

Sunstreaker turned on the spray and beckoned for Jazz to go first. Feeling grateful, under his overall numbness, the Polihexian took the yellow twin up on his offer and stepped under the solvent spray. Tbe heat of the solvent worked to clear Jazz processor, and when he stepped from underneath it he felt considerably more stable. Once the Polihexian had surrendered the shower, Sunstreaker gestured for his Twin to go next. Sideswipe did not move, however and instead stared down at his peds.

“Sides,” the yellow brother said.

“I swear I locked the door,” Sideswipe whispered. “I swear, Jazz.”

“I know ya did,” Jazz replied. “Pitspawn cut through the door.”

“ How’d he manage to sneak up on Prowl?” Sunstreaker asked.

“When Prowl’s directin’ a battle, he don’t see anythin’ else,” the Polihexian explained. That’s why somebot’s ‘sposed to watch his back.“

"Except we weren’t,” Sideswipe said. Guilt was heavy and black in the red twin’s EM field. When Jazz reached his field put he realized the guilt was just as heavy in Sunstreaker’s field, along with anger. He brushed his own EM field, laced with understanding and reassurance.

“Ya were where he wanted ya to be,” Jazz assured them. “Prime. Needed ya.”

“How’d they even find the tac-cave?” The red twin asked. “Why just send one?”

“Wonderin’ the same thing,” the Polihexian replied. “Got ops retrievin’ the slagtard so we’ll see what we can find out.

"You didn’t know he was heavy,” Sunstreaker said as he took his turn under the spray. “Or he wouldn’t have been there.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Jazz admitted. “Ain’t seen much o’ him with Ops runnin' like they bin 'n when I’ve been home he’s been buried in his datapads 'n not interested in comin’ out.”

“He looked off,” the yellow twin said. “More than just the big armour. He was standing… different. Hadn’t noticed until this 'cycle. He’s been hiding behind his desk. He didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Why, though,” Sideswipe asked. “What was he afraid of?”

“Losin’ Smokey,” Jazz replied. “That’s what he was afraid 'o.”


	7. Something Different

“You and Megatron have more in common than I ever realized,” Starscream said as Autobot and “Neutral” stood on the balcony, overlooking Iacon.

“What do you mean?” Optimus asked, mood dark as it seemed destined to be of late.

“Beating your second in commands when you don’t like their opinions,” the Seeker explained. 

“I never… not then,” the Prime realized he could not dispute the statement entirely. Prowl was a traitor though… but what had Megatron called Starscream?

“The difference is, I might have deserved it,” Starscream went on to say. “Part of the time, at least. I was a traitor. Prowl? Prowl’s just smarter than you. Smarter than me since it took him this long to be so openly defiant. Or maybe he was just a coward.”

“Prowl, was never a coward,” Optimus found himself defending the mech he had come to hate. 

“So maybe you are?” The Seeker asked. “Are you afraid to admit that you might be wrong, that your spark might be wrong?”

“I am not wrong,” the Prime argued, though the internal argument that had been raging in him was not as certain.


	8. Transit of Sparks

Smokescreen’s shrill keening met Jazz’s audials the instant he step from the washracks. He broke into a run, terrified some harm had come to the tiny bitlet. He need not have been alarmed. First Aid had Smokescreen on a little nest of warming blankets as the intern made soothing noises only audible to the Polihexian against the newling’s cries due to his especially sensitive audials. When Jazz arrived his spark flared at the sight of Smokescreen’s frantic kicking and flailing. It did not even occur to the saboteur to ask permission. Instead, he scooped the bitlet up and cradled him against his chassis. The keening and flailing immediately stopped and Smokescreen let out a soft vent.

“He’s imprinted on you,” First Aid said. “Well, that’s not so bad a thing. Premature newling’s need more emotional support than even their full term counterparts.”

“How is he?” Jazz asked.

“Really good all things considered,” the medic in training replied. “He can’t control his temperature, and he’s two thirds the weight of a full term Praxian newling. Considering he is actually moderately premature, seventeen stellar-cycles early, he’s an excellent weight and in wonderful shape. He isn’t developed enough to nurse so he’ll need intravenous energon for at least a few orns. I’ve asked Iacon General to send over one of their incubators, it’ll help his development catch up more quickly, and monitor his health.”

“You gonna keep him here?” The Polihexian asked.

“Ratchet thinks it’ll be better if he stays close to Prowl,” First Aid explained. “Fix It worked in the sparkling unit in Polihex before coming to Iacon as a refugee. He’ll be taking over Smokescreen’s care when he arrives.”

“That’s good,” Jazz said. “Prowl would want’m wit an expert.”

The incubator arrived and First Aid tried to hook Smokescreen up to it, but the bitlet shrieked and keened, and when his vents started coming in hiccups, the intern put Smokey back in Jazz’s arms, and the newling immediately quieted as he curled his sharp little digits to cling to the Polihexian’s chassis. Taking the warming blanket from the exam table, First Aid circling around to Jazz, and tucked the blanket around Smokescreen. In a matter of kliks, the little one was recharging.

“He needs to take in some energon soon,” the intern said. “Newlings are drowsy in general for the first orns, he’ll be a bit worse but that’s shouldn’t hamper the intravenous line. I don’t suppose you have an energon well?”

“Had it removed when I was a mechlin’,” the saboteur replied with a negative. “Common practice in Polihex, only receptive’s keep’em. My procreators didn’t believe that slag, me ‘n my brother bein’ intact is one of the reasons we got taken by the state.”

“I’m sorry,” First Aid said. “What a terrible reason to take creations from their procreators.”

“They were nomadic musicians,” Jazz explained. “From one of the old tribes that never settled. Ric ‘n me ended up in a younglin’ centre, never saw our procreators again. They didn’t let us go quietly, ‘n they ended up in one of the detention camps and purged.”

“Jazz, I had not idea,” the medic in training said. “What happened to your brother?”

“Most ‘Bots don’t, Aid, ain’t somethin’ I talk ‘bout much,” the Polihexian replied. “Ric went ‘Con. Haven’t seen’m in vorns. If I did I’d have to treat’m like any other ‘Con.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Jazz,” First Aid said. “I’m glad you didn’t go ‘Con. I’m going to distill some sparkling grade energon so I can set up the line.”

Jazz rocked on his peds and crooned at the mechling. It would break his spark if Prowl asked him to break the link. Caretaker protocols want been initiating in his helm from the moment Smokescreen had unfurled in his servos, and it would be Pit to step away, but if that was what the Praxian asked, Jazz would have to obey. He hoped Prowl would not, hoped Prowl would let him, might even want him to act as the bitlet’s ‘genitor. The responsibility was one he had shied form, one his life was not set up to accept, but the saboteur was already making plans. The tactician must have known he would step up, would block any claim from Chromedome. Had he kept his carrying a secret because he did not want Jazz to make a claim either, or because he thought Jazz would recent the responsibility down the road? The question nagged him, but it would be a while before Prowl was able to answer, if he ever was.


	9. Transit of Sparks

Joors passed and Prowl remained in the surgical suite. No one had yet to appear to update Jazz on the Praxian’s condition. The more time passed the more the saboteur wondered of Ratchet was fighting a losing battlr. It should have given Jazz more hope, if Prowl was still alive at this stage surely he would make it through, but the Polihexian did not feel that kind of optimism. Memories of Prowl’s wrenched open chassis and incredible pools of energon made it impossible to feel optimistic. Neither twin voiced it any either. They waited close but not too close to Jazz, peering dubiously at Smokescreen when they thought no bot was looking. They cared for the tactician, more than the Polihexian had ever guessed, more, he thought than Prowl would have imagined.

  
They inched over when First Aid took a bitterly unhappy Smokescreen and inserted a feeding line through the secondary intake access on the tiny bitlets abdomen. The access port was so small the intern had been forced to jerryrig an adapter from parts in Wheeljacl’s workshop. The Twins brushed their shoulders against Jazz’s as the mechling wailed, and the saboteur teeked sympathy and empathy in their fields, and Jazz extended gratitude in his own field. He wanted to pick Smokescreen up and to soothe him but he knew the bitlet needed to fuel. As his tank filled, Smokescreen quieted as he dozed off again.

  
“Why don’t you mechs get a cube?” First Aid suggested one he managed to deposited the recharging newling into the incubator. “That way Ratchet has less to complain about when he’s finished surgery.”

  
Jazz did not want to leave, not Prowl and not the bitlet, but he let the Twins nudge him along because there was wisdom in the medic-in-training glyphs. Beyond that, he had duties of his own and by now, his team ought to have retrieved and examined the slagtard’s corpse. Just as he stepped from the medbay, an alert went off in his helm, and he stopped.

“Go along, mechlings,” he said. “Got a comm comin’ in.”

They shared a look and shrugged on unison, and left the Polihexian behind. Before Jazz could speak, a familiar reviled mech appeared. Chromedome slowed his pace when he saw Jazz. Though he kept his frame loose and his field relaxed, the saboteur was an immovable barricade. By now the joor was so late, the hall in front of the medbay had emptied of well wishers and the loved ones of the wounded. The mnemosurgeon stared the Polihexian down but Jazz did not so much as twitch. He had thought of a thousand ways to kill the mech, all he needed was the right push.

“You his guardmech?” Chromedome asked with obvious derision.

“Nothin’ for ya here, Chromedome,” Jazz said, keeping his tone mild.

“I hear there’s a bitlet,” the mnemosurgeon countered. “That’s my business.”

“Registered as budded,” the Polihexian said. “Ain’t anymech got a claim but him.”

“I bet if they take a deep enough they’ll find a claim,” Chromedome sneered.

“Ya weren’t the last mech to ‘face wit Prowl, ya sure as frag didn’t ‘face’m after the newspark formed, ya don’t have slag for a claim,” Jazz countered as he crossed his arms.

“Real proud of yourself, like sticking your spike in my leftovers?” The mnemosurgeon asked.

The mech was on his back a nanoklik later. It was not an act of blind rage. Jazz knew each strike. His fist shattered Chromedome’s visor and dented the mnemosurgeon’s mouthplate, and his knee crushed the thin plating of Chromedome’s thin abdomenal armour. Visor glowing white, Jazz leaned over the agonized Tagonian, and then crouched by his side. When he spoke, his voice was cold, and cruel.

“Take a step near Prowl or the bitlet and I’ll make ya disappear,” Jazz said. “I can kill ya in a hundred ways ‘n I think I might like tryin’em all.”

“I’ll see you in the brig,” Chromedome bit out with a pained wheeze. The Polihexian shrugged.

“That’s fine,” he replied. “’N I’ll just take the time to let Blaster know ya ‘faced Prowl after ya’d finished the Rites with Rewind. ‘N after that I’ll let Ratch know ya tried to use yer needles on Prowl when he kicked ya outta his berth. Maybe ya erased those memories from yer own processor, to make sure Rewind didn’t see, but Prowl remembers, ‘n we both know those needles leave a scar.”

Jazz stood and after he did, Chromedome struggled up to his ped. Hatred flashed in the mnemosurgeon’s optics, openly displayed with only small pieces of visor remaining attached at the sides and top of the Tagonian’s helm. There was fear too, and the saboteur smirked. An orn in the brig for assault was nothing, but if Jazz reported the mnemosurgeon’s attempted assaulted on Prowl, it was not only the loss of his license Chromedome faced, but a long stint in the detention centre.

“Better find someone else to patch ya up,” Jazz said, gesturing down the all. “Medics here got more important bots to worry about than a cogsucker like you.”

Chromedome may have wanted to argue, but the promise of violence seething in Jazz’s field was enough to chase the mech off. Only once he limped around the corner did the Polihexian relax. Just as he did, a cube materialized and was pushed into his servo. His operative blinked into view a nanoklik later, and he followed Jazz’s stare down the hall. Mirage said nothing, and instead waited for Jazz to relax the rest of the way.

“If you still want to kill him, I’m willing to be your alibi,” the Towersmech said.

“Sweet of ya ‘Raj but I’ll let’m live for now,” Jazz replied. “Ya got the frame to Iacon?”

“It’s been turned over to the coroner,” Mirage confirmed. “After I made my own observations.”

“And?” The Polihexian asked.

“He’s not a ‘Con,” the spy replied. “He’s an assassin for hire, mostly out of Neutral states. It’s possible the ‘Cons hired him, but it seems unlikely. They have their own killers, and they charge less than that sack of scrap.”


	10. Transit of Sparks

“Not a ‘Con?” Jazz considered the implications. “It fits, don’t it? 'Cons would sent a team. 'N they woulda tried to take’m alive, not just stabbed’m in the back.”

“I had the same thought,” Mirage said. “It has ugly implications.”

“Sure do,” the Polihexian replied. “Means it coulda been one of us that paid the fragger’s bill.”

“Should I take it that this is what you would like me to investigate next?” The spy asked.

“'Xactly right,” Jazz confirmed. “Find out how he knew where the tac cave would be. If we got leaks, I want'em plugged. Permanently if necessary.”

“Understood,” Mirage replied. “You’ll know when I do. Drink the cube, Jazz.”

For all the Towers mech balked at the responsibility of leadership, he was good at giving orders. Jazz drank the cube as he wound his way through the corridors of the base, descending into the basement where the morgue was located. He did trust Mirage’s analytical abilities, but that did not mean he did not want to see the slagger for himself.

The assasin for hire was not the only husk laid out on the morgue’s slabs. A lot of Autobots had died in the battle, more might yet die of their wounds. They had been doing pretty well until Primal Vanguard had fallen in heavy numbers. It had been a blow to moral, and the Autobot lines and weakened. Prowl had had them reforming when he had broken communication, when he must have been attacked. Without his directions it had taken them longer to regroup. Jazz suspected that the generals were blind to it, Prime too.

The saboteur searched the dead mech’s personal affects recorded everything he found of interest. They would bring in metaforensics to do their own investigation, once Jazz confirmed the slagtard was no Con. Nonethless, the Polihexian was determined to investigate the matter himself. Prowl was… Prowl was everything he had ever wanted but refused to take. If an Autobot had hired a hitmech he or she was as good as dead.

When he had learned what he could from the husk, Jazz made his way back up from the basement and back over to the medbay. The sounds of a fussy newling met his audial horns and Jazz followed the plaintive whines to one of the private treatment rooms. First Aid was not alone with Smokescreen, a red and white Polihexian was with him. Though they were not exactly friends, Fix It and Jazz had crossed paths, and the saboteur had nothing but respect for the young medic.

“He imprinted on Jazz,” First Aid explained as the newling’s fussing abated a little.

“Are you the progenitor?” Fix It asked.

“He listed it as a budding,” Jazz replied. A flash across the medic’s black visor was the Polihexian equivalent of a cocked browridged. Jazx shrugged. “I contributed. Not enough to automatically call myself his 'genitor.”

“Until his origin can voice an opinion you may as well fill the role,” the medic said. “Smokescreen needs the emotional support.”

“He doin’ okay?” The saboteur asked.

“Beautifully,” Fix It replied. “His intakes are well developed which means everything at his prematurity. He’s accepted the feeding line, and held down the energon. So long as he doesn’t catch an infection I see no reason to believe he won’t be thriving in a few quartexes.”

“That’s a big relief,” Jazz sighed.

“He’s going to prefer to be held than not,” the other Polihexian said. “And that’ll only help his self-repair systems develop. You can’t spoil a newling, whatever mechanisms say. They thrive on love.”

“I got plenty to give’m,” the saboteur replied.


	11. Transit of Sparks

Vorns ago…

The base was quiet when Jazz finally made it home. As was his habit he ignored the protocols that called for him to see a medic and to be debriefed, had the saboteur needed real debriefing there was no operative present with the experience to sort out Jazz’s processor, and he liked it all the better this way. He was Head of Special Operations, and Third in Command of the Autobot Army. There was no mechanism alive that had been vetted to deal with his processor. As it was Jazz had managed to link up with his operatives and sources without running into Cons, all in all he mission had gone well

Though the Polihexian was happy breech regulations and dodge Ratchet, the intelligence he had gathered was hot and Jazz wanted to see it on the Tac Head’s desk before he turned up the music and recharged for a mega-cycle. Despite the fact that Prowl had his own encryptions locking his door, they were nothing the saboteur could not hack with a little effort. To his surprise though, there was no need to hack the lock, and the tactician’s door open when Jazz touched the pad. Frowning, he stepped inside.

“Hello, Commander,” Prowl greeted looking away from the holo projections displayed above his desk. Jazz checked his chronometre, thinking it had to be faulty, but no it could not be.

“Didn’t think ya’d be workin’ this late,” he said.

“I have analyses and reports to review,” the Praxian replied. “You have your report?”

“Right here,” Jazz confirmed. He frowned at the other mech’s stack of datapads. “Get a late start?”

“No, I began my shift at 0500, yester-cycle,” Prowl said.

“Mech it’s 0200, you been workin’ near two whole ‘cycle straight,” the saboteur exclaimed.

“ Is there a point to your interrogation?” The tactician asked.

“Last I checked ya need to recharge much as the rest 'o us,” Jazz replied.

“I have a fuel efficient frame,” Prowl said. “More importantly I have work to complete and I will remain until it is done. ”

“No Bot can go 'cycles without a charge 'n not feel it,” the Polihexian scolded. “Have ya even taken a break?”

“I do not take breaks,” the tactician replied, looking a bit peevish now.

“I noticed,” Jazz said. “At least tell me ya’ve been fuelling. ”

“I fuelled…” Prowl paused, visibly making the effort to remember. “At 1000 joors.”

“For frag’s sake,” the saboteur cursed. “No charge 'n no energon. If you’re gonna have a glitch for a processor, at least keep a decent store o’ cubes on ya.”

A small shift occurred in the seated mech’s expression and Jazz ran his servo down his faceplates before saying: “’M sorry.”

“I do not require an apology,” the Praxian replied. His voice just a little cooler, and harder than normal.

“Ya still deserve it,” Jazz said. “’N it ain’t what I meant. If you’re gonna run yerself into the ground, least ya can do is keep yerself fueled. If that means storing rations, why not?”

“I recognize that I am under closer observation that any other officer,” Prowl said, he dipped his doorwings. “Even if I could proof that I was following my ration allowances to the glyph, it would still attract unnecessary, and unwanted speculation.”

Jazz might not have come to the same conclusion right away, but he realized after just a few nanokliks that Prowl was right. It was not just that he had a documented processor glitch, or that he was Praxian, or that he was an enforcer by training, and not a soldier, or even that he clashed openly with officers, and even the Prime when they dismissed his strategies. Rather, it was the sum of these things that made certain no move by the tactician was not picked apart. As Jazz tilted his helm, debating whether or to offer Prowl some friendly advice, he saw what the Praxian had been working on. The battle at Altihex.

“You been goin’ o’er the battle for two ‘cycles, why?” Jazz asked.

“I calculated a maximum casualty cap of fifteen hundred Autobots,” Prowl replied. “We lost six thousand.”

“Slag happens, Prowl, ‘specially in war,” the saboteur said. “Ya can’t plan for everything.”

“Slag does not happen, it is allowed to happen,” the Praxian countered. “It was my strategy and I am answerable to it. I need to understand where it went wrong.”

“Where ya mighta gone wrong?” Jazz asked, gently.

“Yes,” Prowl confirmed.

“Can’t hurt to have another set o’ optics,” the Polihexian replied, ignoring his own exhaustion for the time being. “I’ll grab a couple ‘o cubes, for us ‘n we can see why we lost all those ‘Bots.”


	12. Transit of Sparks

The loss of four times as many mechanisms as Prowl had planned for was due to a failure he had not anticipated, his carefully crafted strategy had simply not been followed. The battalions had improvised, for lack of a description. Instead of utilizing the manoeuvres the tactician had ordered, they had charged head on, and the critical canons had defended that force and not the one in the pivotal position, and instead of breaching the weakest point in the Decepticon defense with an unexpected show of force, the battalion had been almost completely wiped out.

Optimus had taken Prowl’s report as the generals facing the Praxian’s reprimand had made counter protests. Jazz had seen the tactician looking a bit annoyed under is careful mask, but this was the first time the saboteur had seen Prowl angry. To his surprise, the Praxian did not just lash out with glyphs, instead he flicked his servo, tossing a communicube onto the table and let it play.

Side by side to scenarios played out. One Jazz recognized as an actual replay of the battle. The failures of the commanding officers to follow the plan began costing lives and weaponry almost immediately. The highest losses happened when Optimus himself came to the rescue of Delta Magnus. That crucial unit Prowl had intended to have break through the Decepticon line turned to cover the Prime’s back, leaving themselves exposed. Maybe if they had had the canons intended for them they might have been able to mount a defence.

“That is awfully self-serving,” Delta Magnus accused, visibly angry to see blame fall on him and his bots. “How do we know you haven’t rewritten you plan to cover up your failings.”

“Perhaps because you should all have a copy of Operations Double Back in your possession,” Prowl countered coolly. “You’ll find they are identical to what has played here. It is decided unbecoming of an officer to attempt to blame another for his own poor judgment.”

“Thank you, Prowl,” Optimus said. “You’ll want to remember that following the strategy written on a datapad doesn’t always work on practice on the battlefield.”

“How would you know, Prime, Sir?” The tactician asked as he levelled a cool stare at the Autobot leader. “When you did not even try?”

The borederline insubordination had come as a shock to Jazz, the fact that Prowl was not admonished for it was less surprising. Optimus gave his offiicers a lot of leeway, but the heat in the Prime’s optics, and the stiffness of his shoulders told the Polihexian that the recrimination had not been well received, deserved or not.

Jazz had still been thinking about the exchange stellar-cycles later when he went to the tactician’s office to share the intel he had just received earlier in the previous night-cycle. Alpha Centaurii was just rising on the horizon. The Polihexian was not an early riser by nature, he never let intel sit. Despite the early joor, Jazz knew he would not beat Prowl to his office so he was not surprised when he found the Praxian already at his desk. He was surprised to find Prowl in recharge, slumped over his desk, a datapad still in his servo. Jazz frowned as he pinged the other mech, who slowly stirred. Based on the piles on the desk, Prowl had not fallen into recharge first thing, rather he had collapsed with exhaustion after working Primus knew how many joors straight.

“You comin’ round Prowl?” Jazz asked.

“Yes,” Prowl replied as he slowly sat upright. He looked more than half slagged.

“What had ya workin’ so long ya passed out?” The Polihexian asked as he rounded the tactician’s desk and crouched next to him.

“How do I convince Prime to listen to me?” He responded with his own question.

The saboteur sighed: “He does listen to ya.”

“He hears me,” Prowl countered, sounding as weery as he looked. “He does not listen.”

“I don’t, know Prowl,” the Polihexian said. “The things ya say, truth or not, can be hard for mech to take. He’ll come around.”

“I do not share you optimism,” the tactician replied. “You came here for something, I presume.”

“Intel on Polihex,” Jazz explained. “I’ll do the preliminary analysis, get it to ya later. You really look slagged. Have a cube.”

Prowl accepted the cube pushed into his servos and took a long sip. He was probably as underfueled as he was undercharged. Jazz stood up and grabbed the chair across from the Praxian’s desk, turned it around and sat, draping his arms over the back. A pale purple glow caught Jazz’s attention. He turned his helm and saw a small crystal suspended over a curved black base.

“That new?” He asked, gesturing to the crystal.

“From my procreators,” Prowl revealed. “For my Emergence-Cycle. Which is next… this mega-cycle.”

“Happy E-Cycle, Prowl,” Jazz said. “Did ya try'n work late to take the ‘cycle off?”

“No, I intend to complete my duty shift,” the tactician replied, lowering the drained cube to his desk. “I am not in the habit of marking the mega-cycle with festivities.”

“How many ‘cycles have ya worked straight?” the Polihexian asked.

“Fifty-two, if you include the battle, and the training exercise at the beginning of the quartex,” Prowl revealed.

“Holy frag, Prowl y’re insane, ya know that?” Jazz seethed. How in the Pit had no one noticed this. How could tactics not have noticed? “That over a quartex, over a quartex ‘n at least a couple orn’s worth of that was straight through, no ‘charge. Fraggin’ insane.”

“I prefer to work, Jazz,” the Praxian said. 

“Too fraggin’ bad ‘cause ‘m gonna report ya to Ratchet if ya don’t cut that slag,” the saboteur warned. Prowl levelled his with a glare, Jazz shot one back. “Don’t give me that look. You are gonna work yerself into stasis. ‘N I ain’t havin’ that on my conscience.”

“I have no use for down time,” Prowl argued. “I dislike popular entertainments, sports, I prefer to keep my processor stimulated.”

“So read a datapad,” Jazz snapped back, and shook his him when the other mech gave him a look. “One that don’t got a report on it.”

“You are being difficult,” the tactician observed.

“Nah, that’s you,” the Polihexian replied. “Ya want to prove yerself ‘n ya feel like y’re failin’. I get it. But ya won’t help yer case if ya end up in Ratchet’s tender care.”

Prowl did not verbally respond but his doorwings dipped, and he slanted his helm as he looked at Jazz through dull optics. It was not just a matter of the Praxian being a workaholic, it was abundantly clear that Prowl was as emotionally drained as he was physically. He must have felt like he was on his own, probably because he was. The tactician was a creature of order and reason, and the Autobots just were not. They needed to be molded into more than glory hounds but without Optimus on board, he had no chance

“’M gonna take ya home,” Jazz said. “Yer gonna ‘charge, ‘n then ‘m gonna pick ya up after my shift ends ‘n I’ll take ya out for engex to toast yer E-Cycle.”

“Fine,” Prowl said, a sigh in his vents, the Polihexian grinned.

“Can’t believe ya actually agreed,” he replied.

“I do not have the energy to fight a losing battle,” Prowl said.

“No slag,” Jazz smiled as he pulled the other mech from his chair. As they left together he sent Optimus a quick message via the data-net.

_Found out two things. It’s Prowl’s E-Cycle, and he’s worked fifty-two ‘cycles straight. So I‘m herding him to his berth, and he’s actually slagged enough to cooperate. Tactics’ll survive without him for a ‘cycle. We’ll talk later._

_Jazz._


	13. Transit of Sparks

Prowl’s habsuite was sparsely furnished, and unexpectedly small. A fridge with an energon dispenser and a small alcove of cabinets and counters made up his kitchen. A small couch with a thick back cushion was the only seating. It faced a row of shelves filled with datapads, and a run of the mill vidscreen and entertainment unit. The layer of dust on the screen suggested it had no been used it a while, no big surprise. Jazz did not snoop as he waited for the Praxian to finish his call, though the temptation was there. No doubt Prowl would notice immediately, and it would completely destroy any trust the mech had for the saboteur. Though Jazz did not know how chummy he wanted to get with Prowl, he respected the mech and like Pit he was going to frag the Praxian over on his own E-Cycle.

When Prowl finally emerged from his berthroom Jazz got a good look at him. The tactician had taken the time to touch up his finish, it was one Pit of an improvement. He was a handsome mech when he was not exhausted, and scuffed up. Technically he was always handsome, with those proud doorwings, striking chevron, and piercing optics, but good repair still made a world of difference.

“Thought we’d go to my favourite lounge,” Jazz said as he and the tactician descended to the street. “Ain’t big with the Bots so ya don’t gotta worry "bout noisy optics.”

“I appreciate the thought,” Prowl replied

They did not make conversation during the relatively short drive. If the Praxian actually wanted it, he would have started it, and what Jazz knew of the mech suggested he was not much for small talk. Though the Polihexian generally took speed limits as suggestions, driving with a mech Enforcer glyphs on his doors kept Jazz’s speed at exactly the mosted limit. It occurred to him then that Prowl ought not to have had those glyphs, right? Obviously the Praxian had stepped down for the Praxian Enforcers when he had enlisted. Or maybe he had taken leave, maybe he was just giving the Autobots a chance. If that was Prowl’s plan the mech was probably already taking steps to return to his home state. That would explain why his habsuite was so empty. Jazz vented. The move home would probably be a good one for Prowl, given the rough time he was having with Optimus and the officers, but the saboteur thought it would not be such a good move for the Bots. Maybe if he asked Prowl, he would be truthful.

“Here’s the spot,” he announced as they pulled up to the curb in front of the lounge. He waited, bemused by his own nervousness, as Prowl examined the cubist mural on the front wall.

“The owner is Altihexian,” the tactician observed. Jazz did not chuckled.

“Got that from the mural?” He asked.

“This particular style of cubism is not native to Iacon,” Prowl explained. “The bartender, out of scale with the rest of the scene is Altihexian. It is his domain.”

“Y’re right, that’s Sharp,” Jazz said. “Don’t think most mechanisms look at that mural ‘n see anythin’ but a pretty picture.”

“I was in metaforensics for vorns, Jazz,” the Praxian replied. “Often it is what is dismissed as mundane that proves to be the most valuable evidence.”

“Did ya work yerself to scrap there too?” Jazz asked as they walked into the lounge, past the hostbot, and over to his favourite both.

“Less,” Prowl admitted. “ Though when investigating an active case, it might have been anywhere from an orn to a quartex before I left the precinct. When I moved into Command I kept a foldable berth in my office during especially delicate operations. I managed 20% more recharge during those stellar-cycles.”

“Ratch’ll have cyberkittens if ya try that here,” Jazz warned.

“He voiced his disapproval quite succinctly when I suggested it,” the Praxian replied. “Contrary to what you and the majority of the Autobots appear to believe, I do know my limits. I push them more often here but I know them, and despite what Ratchet thinks, my recharge habits do not leave me vulnerable to crashes.”

“Ya know before ya the only Bot wit a glitch was Red,” Jazz said. “He ain’t the best example of glitch maintenance.”

“Red Alert’s glitch manifests differently than my own,” Prowl replied. “My crashes are predictable.”

“Oh ya?” The saboteur asked.

“My processor must overheat in order for a crash to occur,” the tactician revealed. “This occurs when my emotional cortex locks onto something, along with my tactical systems. I can feel them coming, and most often I can avoid them.”

“Lived wit it long enough, I guess,” Jazz said.

“I had extensive occupational therapy,” Prowl replied. “I do not have a glitch due to a mad mech’s experiments, like Red Alert. I emerged with mine and it manifested itself early. My procreators had the funds to secure me the best specialists. Glitches cannot be cured, Jazz but they can be managed, and the earlier they are detected the easier it is to learn. I have managed mine since I was a sparkling.”


	14. Transit of Sparks

“Two engex, Roller,” Jazz said when the waiter came up. “One o’ those mixed gel trays.”

“You got it, Jazz,” Roller replied. When he left Jazz turned to his companion.

“Do they know why ya emerged wit yer glitch?” He asked.

“I was forged with my battle computer, inherited from my originator, at the same time I was forged with a latently powerful logic processor,” Prowl explained, more candid than the saboteur had expected. “My emotional cortex is less well developed, and its connections weaker due to the resource demand of those components. ”

“Emerging with a battle computer’s slaggin’ rare,” the Polihexian mused. “Guess ya were forged to be a strat.”

“I have thought that myself,” the tactician replied.

Jazz had never heard of inate glitches, but he supposed no procreator would want admit they had forged a flawed being. In the era of the Functionalists it would have meant sterilisation for the procreators, and death for the sparkling. Functionalism had been dying out across Cybertron when Jazz had emerged but it had survived, and still survived in an even more bastardized form in Polihex. It had been that rigid belief system that had seen the Polihexian and his brother ripped from their procreators’ arms, before those loving mechs were killed. Praxus must have already broken away from that murderous system.

“Guess Praxus got away from Functionalism before ya emerged,” the Polihexian said.

“It existed in a less ruthless form in some regions,” the tactician replied. “Perihex was one of those regions. Which is where my family still resides. My life was never threatened, though I faced some obstacles my procreators were and are exceedingly wealthy. I had more opportunities than most mechanisms with the same or similar defects would have had.”

“Was it hard leavin'em?” Jazz asked.

“I have spent the whole of my adult life distancing myself from them,” Prowl revealed, looking Jazz straight on, almost challenging him. “My care became my originator’s life’s work after my glitch was diagnosed. When other sparkling triggered crashes during my first orn at school, my originator decided to homeschool me. I was kept from any potential triggering stimuli.”

“He smothered ya,” the saboteur guessed, and Prowl inclined his helm. “

"My progenitor is and was a business mech,” the Praxian revealed. “He trades off world. Prior to my emergence my originator had often gone with him. His work was in the design of security systems, he could work from anywhere. But once I emerged he would not have me so far from the army of specialists he employed to treat me, and so my progenitor continued to trade off world, but alone. When he was home sometimes he intervened if he thought my originator was going too far. For the most part, however he deferred to to his Conjunx Endura’s experience.”

“Was distance part of what drew ya here?” Jazz asked.

“It was,” the tactician confirmed. “Long after I had moved to my own habsuite, and proved myself in the Enforcers, my originator remained in Praxus when my progenitor went off world the bulk of the time, still trying to coddle me. I care deeply for my proceators, I feel intense gratitude for my originator’s devotion but I do not wish to be coddled.”

“I can see that,” Jazz said. “A lil distance is good for all o’ ya. Bet ya resented'em a but ‘n that probably made ya feel like an ungrateful aft.”

“My procreators are off planet together for the first time in vorns. It is most definitely what is best for their relationship.”

It surprised Jazz that Prowl had been perceptive enough to see a strain between his procreators. There would certainly have been one. Resentment would have brewed over the vorns as the Praxian’s originator poured all of his attention onto Prowl, will minimal help from his Conjux Endura, and from the other side there would have been resentment from Prowl’s progenitor, for the mate that put him last and for the creation who’s glitch was the cause. It would not have been fair, emotions often were not but Jazz wondered if the tactician’s procreators had realized that their creation was completely aware of it all. With the glitch being in his emotional cortex, and how it effective his outward behaviour, it would have been easy to think that the Praxian would not have noticed the emotional subtext. Jazz had not thought him capable of it either. There was more to the mech than he had been letting on.


	15. Identity

Pay no mind to the rabble, pay no mind to the rabble. Count the bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums…

Barricade woke disoriented. It had been vorns since he had suffered that memory purge. For a klik he was a youngling again, covering his helm as bombs exploded all too close to his barracks. His progenitor had ordered him to recharge, but how was that even possible? The Praxian shook his helm, and the cannons faded. He was not in the old Decepticon barracks but a small cell in some Autobot base. Beneath a base Barricade thought; he may have had his helm covered when he had been taken here but he had felt the pull of the descent.

Escape would be difficult, realistically it would be impossible. The Fool’s Energon had done it’s work. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his processor clear. The drugs in the Energon were addling him, and the Fool’s Energon kept his energy levels too low to run his ATS at any higher power. Barricade had resorted to drinking only a portion of each cube and disposing of the remaining contents in the small fresher at the corner of his cell.

He ached. The last interrogator had taken to a little torture in order to weaken the Praxian’s resolve, that had been the mech’s explanation. Barricade thought it had been more a matter of revenge for his comrade. It hardly mattered, the results were the same regardless of the motivation. His chevron was broken, along with his cheekplate, his doorwing sensors were scorched. With the Fool’s Energon his self-repair systems had no energy to operate.

Ped steps echoed. The mech, or some other, was headed his way. The torture, tame compared to what his own faction utilized, had only heightened his resolve. If the Autobots wanted his secrets they needed to earn them. Barricade did not know what he wanted them to do, defecting had not been a conscious thought but… what else was there?

The door opened and a new mech entered. More or less Barricade’s height, the Polihexian’s colouring was not dissimilar to his. He had no doorwings, obviously but he had audial horns and a visor that completely obscured his optics. Barricade had never seen the mech but he knew who he was, Soundwave had warned him. His new interrogator was Meister.

“Barricade, I believe,” the interrogator said. “’M told ya been causin’ a bit o’ grief.”

(Lyrics are from Pet by A Perfect Circle)


	16. Guarded By Shadows

“How many bitlets do you have?” Jazz asked as he looked at the three mechlings babbling excitedly up at the dour Praxian. Like their procreator, they were all Praxian, all different ages. The youngest of the sparklings, correction, sparklings and newling. The youngest was close to his upgrade from newling to sparklings but the little grey and red mech was still uneasy on his peds, the second, all over blue was sure on his peds, a late first tier sparkling, and was chattering in a mix of binary and Neo Cybex, the third, grey and blue with distinct golden faceplates was speaking in proper sentences but with the sweet, innocent accent of a sparkling, from the looks of him, he had approaching his second tier upgrades, which explained why he was not in school, but the time was coming soon.

“Four,” Prowl replied, guarded, the Polihexian realized, vulnerable. “From youngest, to oldest, Bluestreak, Skids, and Camshaft. My eldest, Smokescreen, is at school. Mechlings, these mech is one of my colleagues, Jazz.”

“Hi!” Camshaft greeted him with unbridled enthusiasms, while Skids hid behind his procreator’s legs.

“Hiya bitlets,” the saboteur said, smiling at the brave, and the shy mechings. He looked to Prowl. “Everyone talks ‘bout how ya work insane joors, ‘n are always in yer office, but ya ain’t, are ya?”

“No,” The Praxian said as he leaned down and picked up his youngest. A panel on Prowl’s chassis slid back and the mechling latched onto the feeding line. It should not have been a vulnerable moment, but Jazz realized that it was. Prowl was looking away, looking as his creations, but at the same time not. Jazz was an intruder here. “I do work “insane” joors, a mix of here and on base. The majority of my work is done via telecommuting.”

“How did I not know?” Jazz asked, more to himself than to Prowl. “It’s my business to know everythin’ ‘bout everyone.”

“The nature of my family is known only to two mech, three now, I suppose,” Prowl explained. “Optimus Prime, and Ratchet.”

“The Raid on Tyger Pax, the one were ya saved our afts ‘n got yerself enlisted as a strat, these bitlets were with ya in the youngling centre Prime got cornered in,” the Polihexian guessed.

“I have always thought my actions there self serving, not the selfless heroics some have painted them to be,” the tactician said. “My life, those of my creations and other young mechanisms were in immediate, lethal danger. I saved my life, and there’s, Optimus Prime merely got lucky.”

“Did he ever,” Jazz let out a long vent, then asked. “Anything I can help ya, with, while ya take care of this lil’ mech?”

“Camshaft, please show Jazz to the fuel storage,” Prowl instructed. “I believe you and Skids would both like a snacks. Take a cube for yourself, Jazz.”

The Polihexian followed the happy little mech as he skipped into the alcove that served as the family’s fuelling are. Considering the number of mechanisms living in the habsuite, it was really quite small, though painstakingly neat. Tactical Officer to Special Operations or no, wages within the Autobots officers were generally low. Prowl likely could not, or felt like he could not afford a larger suite. Considering he had kept his young family a secret, he probably would not have wanted to draw attention to himself by renting a habsuite anyways. Why the secrecy, Jazz wondered. Other Autobots had bitlets, the tactician would not be an anomaly, but the answer, the saboteur thought would not likely be forthcoming. Camsaft led Jazz over to the fuel cabinet, and in a feat of surprising strength, he managed to pull the door opened. He looked up at the Polihexian, optics glowing with pride.

“Good job, mechlin’,” Jazz grinned as he gave the sparkling the praise he knew Camshaft was after. “So what would ya like? Some gels? Some energon?”

“Gels! Gels” Camshaft squealed excitedly. “Blue ones are my favourite, Skids likes pink ones. Bluestreak likes or’gin’s fuel best.”

“Bet ya did at his age too,” the Polihexian said. “What does your origin like best, Cam?”

“Mid grade with copper and zinc,” the sparkling replied. “And rust sticks!”

“Rust stucks, h’uh?” Jazz said. “Why don’t ya help me make up a lil plate for everybot to share?”

“Yah!” Camshaft cheered. He showed the saboteur where the rust sticks were kept, and help Jazz arrange them… artfully… on the plate. When the snack was ready, and the adult mech had mixed two cubes, the carefully carried the plate over to his originator, who at this point was sitting on the plush couch. Bluestreak was half dosing at this point, though Jazz could here him continue to suck. Skids was tucked in tightly to his originator’s side, watching the intruder suspiciously. Though at the sight of the plate of treats, he perked up.

“Hope this is alright,” the saboteur asked.

“It is, thank you,” Prowl replied.

“Sit with me, Skids!” Camshaft called to his brother as he sat himself, and the plate down in a makeshift nest of blankets Jazz guessed was the mechlings preferred spot to rest as they watched holovids. Lured by the streets, Skids slid off the couch and sat with his brother in their nest and helped himself to one of the pink gels. Jazz took up his vacant place on the couch, but not near so close to Prowl. He handed the Praxian the cube he had mixed for him.

“If secrecy’s what ya want Prowl, I ain’t gonna blab,” Jazz said. “Keepin’ secrets is as big a part of my job as uncoverin’em.”

“Thank you,” the Praxian replied. “I do wish my family to remain a secret. I do not want my commission called into question.”

“Why do ya think that’s a question?” The Polihexian asked. “Y’er the best tactician to join the ‘Bots. Y’er one of the big reasons we’re holdin’ our own.”

“I am their only procreator,” Prowl explained. He paused a moment and turned on the holo-imager. In an instant the chattering of the sparklings ceased and they became entranced by the cartoom playing. “That is enough to call into question whether it is acceptable for me to risk my life by actively serving, despite the fact I do not attend battles. Bluestreak’s young age is another matter.”

“What happened to their ‘genitor?” Jazz asked. If the other mech did not wish to answer, he would not press, but he need not have worried.

“I left him,” the tactician explained. “Praxus is Functionalist. Artists create art, musicians create music, strategists serve the Enforcers, or government, and originators bare creations. I have hyper-fertility. If I engage in interface during a procreo cycle I kindle. My arranged mate saw fit to use me as a broadcarrier. After four cycles, each resulting in a kindling, I knew I would die in emergence before he left me in peace, so I fled in the dark-cycle shortly after Bluestreak emerged.”

“Tyger Pax shouda been a safe but the ‘Cons thought they were buildin’ a super weapon,” the saboteur said.

“I prefer Iacon, and the Autobots,” Prowl replied. “I am able to use the abilities I have trained, with some anonymity.”

“Y’re afraid of being discovered?” Jazz asked, his plating prickled. It was good then that Prowl had let him into the secret. If any mech made a move on the family, they would be quietly disposed of, no better mech to take care of those sorts of problems than him.

“Less than I once was,” the Praxian said. “Iacon is actively opposed to Functionalism, it would be difficult for their progenitor to build a case. I am not altogether sure he would be bothered. Burning so many creations off of me was a matter of ego to him, he was less than concerned with our creations in general. Their care was entirely left to me, it was easy to slip away with them. Prior to being paired off with him, and my first carrying I served the Enforcers for vorns. Emerging sparkling after sparkling, raising endless creations was never what I planned for myself. I always wished to work It was a relief to return to some sort of service.”

“He ever turn up, Prowl, gimme a comm ‘n he’ll be gone,” the Polihexian promised. “Y’er an Op, sorta, ‘n I take care ‘o Ops.”

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl replied. “I do not believe that will be necessary, but should it be, I will take you up on your offer. My creations will not be raised Functionalist, and I will never go back.”


	17. Guarded By Shadows

Despite what he had told Jazz, Prowl did fear Crosscut would find them. The fear had been growing, building in the last quartex until it felt as though the tactician might choke. He would be entering a procreo cycle in half a quartex. It would be the first since his escape, the first since he had been paired off where he was alone, the first where he ought not to dread Crosscut coming to his berth.. But Prowl felt no relief, however, in fact as his procreo cycle drew closer, the fear only grew. Crosscut would know the cycle was approaching, the slagtard kept a detailed calendar listing all of Prowl’s scheduled cycles for millenia a head into the future. Could this be the incentive that would see the mech come for Prowl, come for the mechlings? Iacon was large, and the tactician’s habsuite was only known to three mechs, but that fact offered Prowl very little comfort.

The primary reason he had courted Special Operations, and rather the main branch of the army was the anonymity offered to the operatives that was not offered to Autobots at large. While his designation was known as the mech who single handedly saved Optimus Prime and Tyger Pax (an over simplification, for certain), his faceplates were not, and no one actually knew where Prowl now served, though it was a wildly believed rumour that he was serving as an advisor to Ultra Magnus in Altihex. Though his commanders in Tactics, and all Special Operatives all knew he was stationed in Iacon, you did not last long in Special Operations if you spoke too freely. He was not the only Praxian in Iacon, or the only one serving the Autobots so his irregular presence at the base did not attract any real attention.

But as the mega-cycles ticked closer and closer to the start of his cycle, Prowl adjusted his schedule so that he was telecommuting the entire time. He reasoned if Jazz need him, he knew where to come, otherwise the tactician always replied to messages over the datanet within the joor, and comms within the nanoklik. Working from his desk in his small berthroom, or from the couch in his living room was almost as efficient as it was working from his office on base, and he spent considerably longer that his dutyshift at work. So far as the Praxian was concerned, his telecommuting served the Autobots quiet well.

It did not, however put him any more at ease. What he was doing might have been called nesting except that was absolutely not what he was about. During his procrea cycles, the Praxian felt no different than he did during any other orn. He had no increased drive to interface, despite how the shanix-special stories romanticized it. The only reason he ever knew it was a different orn was because his status reports informed him of the changes. As the orn grew closer, physically, the tactician felt no different, but mentally he was a wreck.

Prowl was hyper aware of every sound, and every sight as he escorted Smokescreen to school. The temptation to pull his creation from his classes for the remainder of the quartex was almost too much to resist, but he did resist. Smokescreen’s education need not suffer due to his originator’s paranoia. That did not mean that Prowl’s mood was not rubbing off on the eldest of his creations, on the contrary, he saw Smokescreen was mimicking his watchfulness, and keeping uncharacteristically close. As a rule, the sparkling was maddeningly independent, but he had been outright clingy this past orn. The observation wracked the originator with guilt. His creations should not have been hostage to his moods.

“Origin!” Smokescreen exclaimed, tugging him into the shadowed lane a block or two from the sparkling’s school.

“Smokescreen, what is that matter?” Prowl asked, but even as the last glyph slipped out, he knew. Panic coursed through his circuits, but the tactician kept his helm. He gathered his sparkling in his arms and darted deeper into the shadows.

What was Crosscut doing here of all places, so close to Smokescreen’s school. Student records were sealed, there was no way for him to know that their sparkling attended here, but Prowl did not believe in coincidence. Still moving, he sent a comm to the school excusing Smokescreen from his classes, and exited the lane the next street over. Though their habsuite was only a short walk away, the originator transformed, urged Smokescreen into his cab and raised for home. As he drove, Prowl kept his sensors hot, tracking every vehicle that moved around him, watching, searching for any sign that he had been followed. Thankfully, he found no evidence of any tails. When they arrived at the tall complex that held their habsuite, Prowl let Smokescreen out and transformed again. Again he swept his sparkling into his arms and quickly made his way inside. The drone that served as doormech did not react. It had a record of the spark signatures of all those welcome in the building. Crosscut would not be one of them, he would not let the white and red Praxian in, regardless of whether or not the mech asked for Prowl by his designation. This complex housed mostly Autobot families, and their security was taken seriously. This added security accounted for the higher housing costs, but the small space was an acceptable trait off, especially now.

“It’s okay, Origin,” Smokescreen said, servos reaching up to Prowl’s faceplates. Only when the sparkling wiped away a tear did the originator realize he was crying. He was fully and completely overwhelmed. “We’ll be okay. The Autobots will protect us.”

“Yes, yes, you are correct, Smokescreen,” Prowl replied as his spark constricted. His brave little creation. Only Smokescreen knew Crosscut’s faceplates, only he understood at all that he was dangerous, though he did not know why. “We will be playing hooky today. We will all watch vids and eat treats together. Does that sound appealing?”

“Yes!” The sparkling exclaimed. “Can I cuddle with you?”

“Of course you can,” the originator promised.

He only put Smokescreen down when he re-entered his habsuite. The sparkling-sitter he had on contract gave him an odd look but accepted his lie that Smokescreen had become unwell and was more than happy enough to leave for a free day at full pay. At his elder brother’s announcement of a mega-cycle of holovids and snacks, Camshaft ran into the cramped berth room he shared with Smokescreen and Skids, and came out with each of their warming blankets. Soon Prowl was buried under blankets and chirring mechings. Smokescreen claimed his left side, Skids and Camshaft claimed ins right, and Bluestreak claimed his lap. As the first holovid began to play his creations were quickly absorbed, and Prowl let his processor drift to his work.

No mech questioned the change in his schedule, only Optimus Prime was directly alerted. With no meetings schedule, Prowl had no issue running his tactical systems and analyzing the most recent data from Operatives stationed throughout Cybertron. When one of his subordinates pinged him with a question regarding a developing plan, the Praxian answered immediately. No one would look for him in his office, no one did anymore, all had realized that they got their answers quickly without ever leaving their stations, without having to face down their stern officer. Prowl’s severe countenance was not accidental. He did not want to be approachable, he did not want his subordinates to get too comfortable with him. Keeping them at a distance may not have been fantastic for moral, but as long as he responded to their concerns quickly, and fairly, no one seemed concerned enough to complain.

Eventually, the younger mechlings grew restless and left the couch to play some games. Prowl kept an optic on them, even as he considered whether a direct assault or one to the left would be preferable when addressing the liberation of Kalis. Smokescreen remained glued to Prowl’s side, and guiltily, the tactician thought that this was more for his comfort than that of his creation. He leaned down and nuzzled his eldest mechling’s helm. As much as Prowl loved him, and his brothers, he could not bare the thought of creating again, and again, of existing for nothing but emerging newlings. The Praxian was grimly aware of what that would mean for him, what it had meant for his own originator. His spark had already been forced to carry four newsparks in quick succession, even one more meant the very real risk of Prowl’s spark snuffing out under the strain. Beyond even his desperate desire to make use of his skills, and his processor, what the originator wanted most at this point in his life was to be allowed to live to see his creations mature. If Crosscut got a hold of him again, Prowl knew he would not be left alone until he had been used up, and burnt out.


	18. Transit of Sparks

It seemed as if Prowl had been in surgery for cycles. Jazz paced back and forth, crooning to the tiny bitlet in his arms. Fixit was concerned with Smokescreen’s stress levels when he was in the incubator so while he worked on a solution, the Polihexian kept his newling against his chassis, a warming blanket draped over the little mechling’s back. Smokescreen was his. Oh yes, he was Prowl’s first but in Jazz’s spark the bitlet was his. It may have been wishful thinking, and the caretaker protocols already active in his code but in his spark, Smokescreen was his.

The doors to the surgery wing parted and a familiar mech enter. Instead of relief or comradery, Jazz felt only alarm. With one servo he pulled the warming blanket up, shielding Smokescreen completely from view. Either Optimus was oblivious or he was pointedly ignoring the look of warning on Jazz’s faceplates, because upon seeing the Polihexian, he actually started to walk in his direction. Jazz’s engine rumbled a warning, and he flared his plating as he filled his field with the promise of violence.

“Try’n touch’m ‘n I’ll take your servos off,” Jazz threatened, the glyphs calling out of his mouth before his upper processors caught up. The Polihexian cupped the tiny newling clinging to his chassis with gentled servos, even as his visor, and field flashed the Prime with the promise of death. The Matrix-Bearer recoiled as though struck by a cannon blast and he looked down at Jazz with an expression of horror.

“I would never harm a sparkling!” Optimus exclaimed. The statement did nothing to ease the saboteur’s stance.

“But’cha might decide some other mech would be a better caretaker to’m than his origin,” the Polihexian replied, his tone smooth, and light. He shifted from ped to ped, rocking the bitlet. “Last thing Prowl asked of me was to keep you away from Smokey, ‘n ‘m not lettin’m down.”

“Carrying mechanisms often go through periods of paranoia,” the Prime said, in a voice likely meant to be soothing.

“True,” Jazz replied, keeping his servos over the slumbering newling, and his visor trained on Optimus. “Prowl was real careful to make sure no one knew he was carryin’. Fix It found his records, after he dug a bit. Prowl was seein’ a Neutral on the outskirts for peri-emergence care. He kept his energon intake at recommend levels, ‘n he planned his return to Praxus, just like it were one of his battle strategies. This last assignment wasn’t in his plans, but ‘m thinkin’ he couldn’t sidestep it without questions, ‘n maybe he hoped he could deal the ‘Cons another blow before he went Neutral.”

“I cannot be the sole cause of his secrecy,” Optimus said, looking gravely between the small form shielded by Jazz’s servos, and the Polihexian’s face.There was a war in the Poliexian’s spark as part of him wanted to reassure his friend, absolve him of some of his guilt, but the truth of the matter was, Optimus should have felt guilty, and until Prowl could protect himself and Smokescreen, Jazz would put all other relationships aside, and protect them himself.

“Not even the main one,” the saboeur confirmed. “He didn’t wanna fight with the ‘genitor, least not in Iacon.”

“Not you?” The Matrix-Bearer asked.

“Might be me, or another mech,” Jazz replied. “Officially neither. He recorded it as buddin’ so no one but him’s gotta claim.”

“The newling, Smokey, has imprinted on you,” Optimus observed.

“Smokescreen, that’s what Prowl designated him,” the Polihexian said. “When Prowler’s strong enough, if he wants me to, I’ll break it. He’s the origin, it’s his right, even if the Halls of Justice aren’t clear on it. He sacrificed his higher systems to make sure Smokey emerged alive. He made me let’m bleed out so Smokey could emerge. Whatever you think of’m. Call’m a schemer, a ruthless, ‘n ambitious cold-sparked slagtard, he did what he felt he had to to keep Smokey alive. Which is what he’s done for all of us.”

“You have strong feelings on this subject,” the Prime said, looking at Jazz though he were analyzing a puzzle. The saboteur stilled, and leveled a look at his friend and leader.

“War’s ugly,” Jazz replied, after a moment. “I kill, outside’a battle, send mechanisms to kill, send my own mechanisms to the Well tryin’ to get slag done. You authorize it, ‘cause that’s what Special Ops is for. Prowl’s a strategist. He takes what dirt we dig up for’m, the objective we wanna win, ‘n he makes it happen. Sometimes he gets it wrong, sometimes it’s messier than any mechanism wants but we’re still alive. ‘Cons didn’t sack Iacon half a vorn ago because of him. It was ugly, some mechanisms starved to death, but the Autobots are still standin’ because he could see through the horror ‘n hopelessness ‘n bring us a victory. Ya respected him at one point, but if ya ever trusted him, it wasn’t for long. Ya been second-guessin’ him for vorns. Lettin’ rank amateurs wreck his tactics wit their “tweaks”, ‘n stonewalled 'm from everythin’ else. He was ‘sposed to be your second but ya undermined ‘m so much most ‘Bots stopped listenin’ when he said slag ‘n discipline’s gone to Pit, ‘n not just in the ranks, in the officers too.”


	19. Plotty McPlot Plot. Failed Smut

Contrary to how it must have appeared to outsiders in moments like this, the pair of high ranked officers locked in a joors long battle were actually friends. Maybe Prowl would not have used that phrasing, it belied far more attachment and emotion than the Praxian liked to admit of himself, but Jazz knew what they were, and knew it was not all one sided. While it was usually he who dragged Prowl out into the commissary or on the rarest of occasions, the oil bar, to decompress, to just take a break, Prowl had on many occasions over the course of their acquaintanceship gone to bat for Jazz, against the Prime and other officers, and offered him the quiet of his office when a mission went to pit. They were friends. But in moments like this, when the tactician’s facade cracked and his voice rose to match Jazz’s, they would not have looked like friends to outsiders. 

  
“Ya know Prowler, someone really needs to frag the rebar outta yer aft,” Jazz exclaimed, raising his arms in a dramatic gesture that matched the exasperation in his voice. As he turned back around to face his colleague, the saboteur immediately regretted disrespecting the mech.

  
“And you think you are up for the challenge?” Prowl asked, with a hint of a challenge. The Polihexian froze. If it were not for his visor he thought his optics would be bugging out of his helm. He could not deny having thought about it, fantasized many times. Every time he had seen the tactician’s facade crack, when he had argued with Prime, or snarled over other commanders to drag a victory out of defeat with worn down soldiers. There was power in Prowl, conviction and purpose and drive. There was fire. And he was beautiful.

  
“That a bet?” He asked. For a moment he thought about the only other Praxian he knew, a rookie he borrowed from time to time. Smokescreen loved to bet. A glint came to Prowl’s optics.

  
“Do you think you are up for it?” The Praxian asked again, with the corner of his mouth raised in a mocking half smile. Jazz had been the recipient of it before.

  
“I’d frag you strutless, Prowler,” the saboteur promised. How many times had he talked himself out of kissing that smug smirk off the Praxian’s faceplates? How many times had he told himself Prowl would shove him off and never ever speak with him again. It was not even for himself that Jazz had resisted for. Prowl needed someone willing to look passed the ornery demeanour and to unwind with him, to make him unwind.

  
“If you can’t, I don’t want to hear that cognomen again,” Prowl replied.

  
“My place or yours?” Jazz asked, grinning from horn to horn. Heat coiled in his interface equipment. He saw fire in the tactician’s optics, and he realized he was not the only one up for the challenge.

  
He was surprised that Prowl elected to take their little tryst to his habsuite, rather than Jazz’s. The Polihexian had thought, private mech that he was, that the tactician would want to keep his living quarters private. They had hung out at the saboteur’s place before, when they wanted to stew outside of prying optics, Jazz had never been here, he had not even realized that the Praxian lived off the base. Maybe, Jazz thought as he surreptitiously looked about, that Prowl just had nothing to hide here. Maybe he just trusted Jazz enough. While the great room and connecting kitchenette were not barren, as he might have imagined, it was still only lightly furnished, and it was immaculate. Praxian furniture, a chaise and chair and low table sat in front of an entertainment centre comprised of holo-imager and shelves laden with datapads. A miniature crystal garden sat in the alcove that made up the dining area. Jazz was no expert on crystals but the spiral of levitating blue and purple crystals looked healthy to him.

  
“What’re yer rules,” Jazz asked.

  
“No doorwings,” was the Praxian’s reply. Prowl ducked into the kitchenette. Jazz wondered if he was stalling. From around the corner, the mech spoke again. “How do you like your energon?”

  
“Just a bit o’ calcium magnesium aluminium phyllosilicate if ya got it,” he replied. With some disappointed, he asked: “No doorwings? Don’t trust me?”

  
“I would not let you frag me if I did not trust you,” Prowl said. The sounds of an energon dispenser whirring, and the rifling through cupboards followed. “If you are going to win this wager, you are going to earn it. Doorwings are easy.”

  
“Always stackin’ the deck the way ya like,” Jazz replied with genuine admiration. He took the cube Prowl offered when the Praxian returned, and raised it to Prowl. “No doorwings. Anythin’ else?”

  
“Nothing I can think of at the moment,” the tactician said, after a klik. Where Jazz’s energon was topped with flecks of green and gold mica, Prowl had a swirl of dark blue through it from magnesium, aluminum oxide. Whereas Jazz’s energon was on the sweeter side, the Praxian’s was spicy, and it was a combination the saboteur also rather liked. Somehow he thought it suited the mech. “I am not a purus, and I am not a priest. I generally enjoy interfacing, Jazz.”

  
“Anythin’ ya don’t like, or if just wanna stopped, all ya gotta do is say so,” the Polihexian declared as he drank his cube. “No hard feelings.”

  
“I have no doubts,” Prowl replied, drinking his own. “For all your irreverent facade, I know you hold yourself to a strict code of conduct.”

  
“Can I kiss ya then?” Jazz asked. Fuel levels replenished, he was more than ready to get the dark-cycle started, to see what he could really bring Prowl undone.

  
“I would be disappointed if you did not,” the Praxian replied. He must have been thinking that Jazz was asking in general because Jazz tasted his surprise when he captured the doorwinged mech’s lipplates. With one servo, he took his new lover’s cube and balanced it with his own against his side, and with his other servo, Jazz cradled Prowl’s helm. Under his mouth, Prowl was warm, and responsive. The Praxian parted his lips of his own volition. He tasted of of spice and rust… rust sticks? This revelation spurned the saboteur on, there were more discoveries to be made. He herded Prowl over to that table he had seen and dropped the cubes on the smooth surface.

  
“Where?” Jazz asked, not wanting to stop kissing the Praxian for even a klik, he tasted his neck, and shoulder, and dropping his servos to his partner’s hips, mindful of his promise to leave Prowl’s doorwings be.

  
“This way,” Prowl replied.

  
His secondary vents were flared open, and Jazz smiled to see his cool demeanour even that rumbled. He knew his own vents were flared too, but the Polihexian had never prized a passionless facade the way Prowl did. Maybe that’s what had drawn him to the tactician when he had first meant. Jazz had seen through the facade, and felt driven to draw more of the Praxian out. Whatever had inspired him to be a thorn in the tactician’s side, he was not the only one affected by the kissing, or in general. Jazz felt lust pour off his current partner, felt the heat radiating from the handsome plating. He had not really thought Prowl was going to just lay there and take it, but he had thought that the Praxian might try to make him earn it, and it was so thrilling and satisfying to have this side of him. Off the great room there were three doors, and Prowl pulled him to the left.

  
“Office?” The Polihexian asked of the right most door.

  
“Guest room,” the tactician replied, voice not thick with static yet, but that unyielding edge was gone. It was not the first time Jazz had heard this side of Prowl, but the lightness was rare from the mech. He carried too much weight on his shoulders.

  
The idea that Prowl might have guests was surprising, but before Jazz could spent even a nanoklik on the thought, the tactician’s mouth and servos were on him, and his processor was right back in the moment. He paid no attention to the desk in the corner, but rather the berth at the centre of the back wall. It amused the saboteur that the berth was unmade, the warming blanket rumbled at the end of thick pad, but he did not dare tease Prowl in this particular moment. Instead, he let the Praxian guide him over to it, and the moment Prowl’s legs hid the edge, Jazz nudged him down to the berth, and followed him down.


	20. Guarded By Shadows

“Got a job for ya, Raj,” Jazz said as he sat in the booth across from the seated noblemech.

In the low lighting of the low end oil bar, Mirage ought to have stood out. But no one ever him come and go, so as long as he stay in the back berth reserved for the Polihexian’s private business, no one noticed the clever spy. No staff would bother them, they knew better. Coolsville was his place, the Towers mech was his silent partner. At the surface it was a comfortable hang out, with life bands and entertainment a few times an orn. In reality, it was more of a cover than a true side business. A lot of information came through Coolsville’s doors, much of it from the wrong side of the tracks.

“Well, I was getting bored,” Mirage replied. The mech was the perfect picture of pampered aristocrat. That image did nothing to earn him friends amongst the Autobots but it was vital to his cover. Mechanisms thought he was part of Prime’s diplomatic core when the Towers mech was in fact one of the founding members of Special Operations, along with his servus, Hound. The servus frame was the third occupant of their little booth.

“Praxian by designation Crosscut’s in town,” the saboteur explained. “Mech’s an ambassador but I checked with Prime, he ain’t in Iacon as any part o’ any Praxian delegation.”

“So pleasure than?” The Towers mech asked, intrigued. One of the spy’s greatest weaknesses was his curiosity, but then it was a useful weakness in their work. “Or business?”

“Maybe both,” Jazz said. “This doesn’t leave the room, not that anythin’ ever does. Crosscut’s the former Conjunx Endura of our very own Tactical Attache. Prowl left him, fearin’ for his life. He thinks the mech’s lookin’ for him.”

“I’m assuming he has a reason?” Hound cut in. “He hasn’t struck me as overly paranoid… Maybe a little cautious.”

“He might be a bit paranoid, but I ain’t willin’ to dismiss’m outright,” the Polihexian replied. “Praxus is Functionalist, not like it’s a secret, right? Mechanisms treat it as an example o’ Functionalism done right, but I think if ya asked Prowl, he wouldn’t say it was right. He’s receptive, so once he got paired up with Crosscut, the mech made sure to keep him sparked up, as much as he could. Prowl’s got four bitlets, oldest one’s only a second tier sparklin’.”

“Too many, too fast, indeed,” Mirage said, giving Hound a sidelong look. “We were always cautioned to give our servus’ vorns of recovery between carryings. It sounds as though this Crosscut doesn’t much care about Prowl’s health or life.”

“He’s got tickets to show at the amphitheatre,”Jazz revealed. “Got himself a private box. I arranged for ya to have the one next to it. I’m hopin’ ya can strike up a conversation, awe’m a bit.”

“I can, and I shall,” the noblemech said. “You want to find out if he is actually hunting Prowl?”

“’M bettin’ he is, more time he’s with ya, the more time he ain’t lookin’,” the saboteur replied. “Timin’s too perfect. Prowl don’t like coincidences, neither do I.”

“I should be able to distract him well enough,” Mirage declared. “Or I need a new line of work.”

“Be safe,” Jazz ordered. “No sign this mech gets violent, but don’t take any stupid chances.”

“What are you going to do about Prowl?” Hound asked. “He’s off base, right?”

“Workin’ on that,” the Polihexian said. “He don’t want Bots knowin’ ‘bout his family. Littlest is still just a newlin’… He don’t want flack for servin’, he don’t want Optimus gettin’ it for lettin’m.”

“One can hardly blame a mech with a processor like his for wanting to use it,” Mirage sniffed derisively. “He may not wish to be uprooted. First the mess in Tyber Pax, now this. He likely vetted his habsuite complex extensively, as well as the surrounding neighbourhood, before settling on it.”

“I think ya read him right,” Jazz replied. “The complex’s got security, more’n most. Costs a pretty credit, so it’s smaller than he really outta have. I think he’s gonna wanna chance the oldest bitlet’s school at least, that’s ‘bout where he saw the slagtard. My thought is the school on base, ‘n the sparklin’ care centre would be best for’em all but that’ll mean outin’ himself.”

“Outing himself might be the best thing he can do,” the servus thought out loud. “Optimus can take the flack, and I think, if he can just focus on his strategies, and not be staring over his shoulder every nanoklik, Prowl probably won’t even notice anyone making them.”

Hound was likely right about Prowl. Jazz considered this as he made his way to Optimus office after leaving his bar. Prowl would not be thrilled to have the Prime involved, but there was no way around it. The Praxian had carried a very heavy burden, one he had carried alone for vorns, and it was clear to Jazz that he was starting to bow under it. He worked too much, no doubt determined to prove he was worthy of the risk Optimus had taken enlisting him, and he obviously worried too much, not to say he did not have cause. The mech was by far the best tactician that had ever been assigned to assist Special Ops, possibly the Autobots in general, and Jazz did not want to see him burn out, or bolt. There was untouched potential there too, the saboteur thought the Prowl he had seen was only half the mech he could be, all he needed was time and security to find his bearings, and there was no telling what he could do.

“Hey OP,” Jazz greeted the Prime with his customary irreverence.

“Hello Jazz,” Optimus replied, unperturbed by the unorthodox manner of his left servo mech. “You’ve given Mirage his assignment?”

“I did,” the Polihexian said. “I know ya don’t quite know what to make’ve him, ‘n what we do, but trust me. He’s the Bot for the job.”

“You’re the expert,” the Prime replied. “I’ve been considering the problem since you informed me of Prowl’s situation.”

“Lay it on me,” Jazz said, dropping into a chair far too big for him.

“It’s possible Crosscut’s already bribed mechanisms in Prowl’s district, or at the mechling’s school,” Optimus said. “Which raises concerns for the family’s safety. The complex is secured, but even security drone’s as specialized as the one outside his building can be tampered with.”

“Been there, done that,” the saboteur confirmed. “Not that drone, but ya I’ve hacked a few. I don’t see Prowl sendin’ the bitlet back to that school, not unless he was standin’ guard outside it himself. Safest place for’m, I think is the school on base.”

“I had the same thought,” the Autobot commander replied. “The resources on base would offer him the most security.”

“He’s gonna resist,” Jazz warned. “Gonna be worried ‘bout ya gettin’ slag for havin’ an origin wit such little sparklings on staff. Gonna be worried he’ll get slag for abandonin’ them with sparklin’ sitters instead o’ stayin’ home with them.”

“My shoulders can take the flack,” Optimus said, resolute. “Thunderclash wants to rejoin the Turbomasters. I’ll need a new Chief of Tactics before the vorns out.”

“Ya want Prowl for it,” the smaller mech said.

“I don’t want to pressure him,” the Prime said. “Or pull him from Special Operations.”

“Don’t know if I can say his workload would change,” Jazz replied. “He’s pullin’ plendy o’ joors for Tactics, not just for Ops. If he can keep telecommuntin’, least a good bit, I think he could pull it off. I think he’ll want it. He’s gonna be scared to take it.”

“Because of the mechlings,” Optimus said.

“And the attention,” the saboteur replied. “He’s got a bit o’ anonymity right now. If he’s promoted to that level, his designation’s gonna be out there.”

“In which case we need to ensure both he and his creations are safe,” the Matrix-Bearer decreed. “And Crosscut goes on his way.”

“Leave Crosscut to ‘Raj,” Jazz said. “Either he’ll find some blackmail, ‘n use it, or he’ll distract the slagger long enough that the immediate danger passes.”

“I want to discuss all this with Prowl,” Optimus replied. “I don’t want to call him here in his current state of distress. “I thought I would visit him at home, and see how much those bitlets have grown.”

“I’ll join ya,” the Polihexian said. 


	21. Guarded By Shadows

Sooner or later Prowl was going to have to return Smokescreen to school, and return himself to his duties on base. Realistically, it needed to be sooner, on both counts but the tactician could not seem to build either the courage or the resolve. It was not his approaching procreo cycle that kept him homebound but fear. At one point, before he had carried Smokcreen, Prowl would have scoffed at the idea that he would ever be paralysed by fear. The will power and emotional control he had once prized had been stripped away.

His creations knew something was amiss. Though he tried hard to keep it in, the originator suspected they could teek his fear with their juvenile fields. He did not want them to be afraid. Iacon was went to be a safe haven, this habsuite a secure fortress but his sense of security was gone. This habsuite no longer felt safe or secure. Prowl could not dismiss the idea that Crosscut had his address. It was only matter of time before he would charm one of the neighbours and slip passed the security drone.

Smokescreen cuddles into his side and Prowl was distracted from his anxious strategizing. He pulled his eldest closer and leaned in to nuzzle his small helm. Though all his creations sensed something was off, only Smokescreen had become somber. His brothers enjoyed their unexpected break from the sparkling sitter, and happily playing, mostly innocent, and unexpected by the looming threat. Smokescreen had been unable to shed his fear, and he would not venture far from Prowl, and when he did join his brothers in a game he seemed hyper alert, and it was no accident when eldest brother positioned himself between his brothers and the door. He was their protector.

Prowl kissed Smokescreen’s helm and chirred softly. His little brave spark. Bluestreak tottled over, and climbed up onto his originator’s lap, tired of the game. He smiled so sweetly up at Prowl before nuzzling at his chassis. Instinctively, the Praxian let the plating slide, and revealed his nozzle to his hungry creation. The newling was showing no signs of weaning just yet, and Prowl could not say he was disappointed. This was one of his favourite parts of being an originator, and the tactician thought he would miss it when Bluestreak eventually grew too old.

Maybe there would be another, Prowl thought as he cradled his ever developing newling against his chassis, and cuddled his eldest sparkling to his side. Not now, and never with Crosscut, but maybe there would be another, vorns from now, with a mech he wanted. The Praxian slowly shook his helm, this train of thought had to have been a symptom of his upcoming cycle. He had four creations, that was already more than most. Still, it was a romantic notion, creating out of love, not out of duty. Such a thing seemed so unlikely because not only would it require him to fall in love, but or the sentiment to be returned, and it would require that mech to embrace four creations he had no part in creating, and was a particularly romantic, and unlikely idea.

An alert from from the security drone downstairs sent Prowl’s spark into a frantic spin. Though he felt like he was suffocating, the Praxian forced his intakes to keep an easy and even pace. When he thought he had avoided a meltdown, or a crash, Prowl actually read the message. Two mech had arrived looking to see him at his habsuite. One identified as Jazz. The other identified as Optimus Prime. There were only two possible responses to the message, yes or no. Might Jazz have knews on Crosscut already? Why was Prime here. Prowl looked down at the floor where Skids and Camshaft were building an elaborate fort, with every cushion and blanket and plush toy they could find. He looked down at Bluestreak as he suckled on his nozzle, and then to Smokescreen who remained quiet, curled there against his side. The place was a disaster, certainly not fit for the Prime, but what could he really do?

“Let them in.”


	22. Shaken

Tarn was dark and still. His plan was working perfectly. The Decepticons were distracted by the assault on the Hydrax Plateau, every Con worth their snuff was kilometres away trying to keep the space port from returning to Autobot servos. It was perfect. Jazz told himself not to get cocky, but the mission was going exactly as planned, and it had been vorns since he had last been able to think that for even a nanoklik. There was no reason to think that this mission would not go south, but the intel was good, Mirage had nearly paid for it with his life. While his long time friend was laid up in the medbay, it was up to the Polihexian and the remainder of his team to make good use of his sacrifice. With a single raised servo, Jazz signalled Hound to do his part.

They were so close, Jazz could taste it. The Decepticon’s super computer was just around the corner, behind the vault. Though the ability was silent, the saboteur felt a tingle as Hound’s hologram generator superimposed the cyclop’s image over his. His coils were tightening, he was ready to leap, but Jazz held back. Through his comms, he sent a single burst of static. Anyone listening would dismiss it as meaningless noise. It was not. Jazz counted back from ten as an energon dagger dropped from his sheath, into his waiting servo. Ten… nine… eight… and darkness. Across the compound, Bee had done his part. Just a few metres away, the vaults guards let out disgruntled curses. The power outage was not particularly suspicious, rolling black outs had been a problem in Tarn, and most Decepticon territories since the Autobots had retaken Kalis. There were other power sources on the planet, other than Kalis’ generators, but like the generator, they all depended on energon and the Autobots had control of the greatest energon stores, and the dirty Cons were now getting a taste of rationing.

Neither guard moved to address the blackout, they knew their orders. These Seekers were loyal to Shockwave. It was inexplicable that the lord of Tarn would have Vosians amongst the ranks of his henchmech, but this was a peculiarity Jazz had no time to waste processor power. He inched down the halls, hunched low, peds silent. Shockwave’s visage was only in case of an emergency, and the saboteur had no intention of being seen. There was no glow from his visor, he had taken his optics offline before he had turned the corner. Jazz navigated the hall using only his audial horns, and the blueprints Mirage had nearly died to steal. Only steps from the Seekers, and they still had not seen him, and they never would.

In a deadly ballet, Jazz leapt upright and drove his blade into the closest Seeker’s chassis. Before he could fall to the ground, before his partner could react, the Polihexian was on him. His optics flickered once as he looked down at the blade in his spark, and extinguished. Jazz sheathed the blade, and took a small bomb from his kit. With speed that only came from experience, he attached it the wall just a servo’s with from its control panel and set the timer. He had just enough time to leap over the bodies and duck before there was a flash of brilliant blue light as the bomb detonated. Within the wall, Jazz heard the hiss of a hydraulic leak, and a series of clicks as the locking mechanism failed. The hologram disguising him fell away as Hound trotted up to join him at the doors.

Each mech took hold of one vault door, and pulled. Without hydraulics, the doors were slow to drag apart, but with gritted denta, the mechs were able to open the doors far enough for Jazz to slip inside. He did not look behind himself to see if Hound would follow, he knew the scout would not. It was to Hound to guard Jazz’s back, and the Polihexian had the utmost faith. Emergency lighting flickered. The blueprints had been accurate, and the well placed bombs Bumblebee had set off had taken out even the vault’s back up power. Only a generator towards the back of the room remained untouched, and it was devoted to keeping the mysterious computer running. There were ten more bombs in the saboteur’s kit, when he was done, there would not be a scrap of this room left intact, and the first ones he would plant, would be on the computer.

Aware that traps might be lingering in the dark, Jazz stepped softly, and carefully deeper into the room. The contents of the room were not what he would have expected. In the low light, it looked more like a lab than a server room. Switching out the bomb in his servo for the blade again, the Polihexian walked past a laboratory bench, and a wall of storage, and machines he could not identify. There was a second room, and through those doors, he knew he would find the super computer. Feeling uneasy, he checked the wall for traps and glanced back over his shoulder. Why a lab? Why this stuff? Some of it looked like the slag in Wheeljack’s lab, some looked like the sensible tools in Perceptors, none of it made any sense for a servo room. Off the side, Jazz saw the generator, and was tempted to divert from the plan. No… The second the computer met its grizzly end, Shockwave was bound to get an alert. If Cliffjumper and the others had not taken him out before it was done, the Tarnian would have a team of drones or Cons here in a klik. There was only one way out of this basement lair, and Jazz did not fancy trying to force their way through a small sea of Cons to make their escape.

He left the generator, and went back to the door. This lock was one hundred percent mechanical. It would have tripped many a mechanism. It may even have been chosen to trip him up in particular, but before Jazz had ever been set in front of an encrypted door, he had been put in front of a lock not unlike this one. His education had been eclectic, but what did you expect from a family of thieves? But the Decepticons only knew to fear the mech they referred to as Meister, they had no idea where he had come from, and Jazz, as the mech was actually known, had no intention of educating them on that subject. Mechanical locks took a bit longer to crack than encrypted ones. There was no plugging in a password generator to speed things along. Listening carefully, Jazz set down his knife and took out his lock pick tools. As good as his optics were, the saboteur was not able to see through walls, unfortunately, and as he slipped his picks into the lock, he manipulated them based on feel, not on sight. He barely ventilated as he studied the lock with the narrow tips of his picks. When he could visualize the lock’s components in his HUD, Jazz twisted the picks and tripped the lock with a satisfying click.

Jazz stood, the lock picks stored, the blade back in his servo, and with his free servo, pushed the door open. The intake he had been taking caught in his vents as the Polihexian took in the sight in front of him. It was a computer, at least there were monitors but at the centre of it all, was a mediberth on which a mech lay prone. Hardly able to comprehend what he was seeing, Jazz stepped into the room. Two cables ran from the mech’s exposed spark into the “computer” behind the mediberth. A feeding tube ran from the secondary fuel intake located to the centre of exposed protoform of the mech’s abdomen, and led to a fuel storage tank to the side of the berth. It was sick. So sick was the sight that Jazz had to fight to keep from purging. From the back of the mech’s bare helm a thick fibreoptic cable connected the mech’s processor to the machine he was clearly operating. On the screen above the mech’s helm Jazz saw the battle in Stanix. He stared at the screen, at the battle, and watched with a spark that was pulsing frantically for the purple Empurata. When Jazz saw the Decepticon scientist laying prone on the field, he turned from the screen.

Unsure what to do, but unable to risk contacting either Iacon in general or Ratchet in particular, Jazz knelt at the mech’s helm. A Praxian, Jazz realized with a wave of sadness. The doorwings were almost lost in all the cables running from him and the ghastly machine. Could he have been taken from the rubble? So far as the saboteur knew, the only survivor of central Praxus was a youngling called Bluestreak. The poor thing was still mostly mute, even vorns on, despite the concerted efforts of the top psychiatrists, and psychologists working out of Iacon. There were Praxian Autobots, but few of them. Smokescreen, a tactician within the Ops Jazz ran was one of them. He was allowed to spend time with the mechling, for sake of the fact he was Praxian, but his psychological studies had been in forensic psychology, not therapy, and he was not involved in Bluestreak’s treatment. Which may or may not have been an error, but Jazz was biased in favour of Smokescreen. At least he understood the bitlet, who was speaking a sort of Praxian binary, using only his doorwings.

Jazz turned back to the fibre optic cable. He was no medic, and he had no real clue how to remove the still mech from this horror show, but the saboteur could not leave him here like this, neither was he just going to kill him and leave his corpse to the Cons. If this Praxian was going to die, it was going to be free of these cables. Gritting his denta and offering a prayer for luck, Jazz placed a servo on the mech’s helm, splaying his digits so the port the fibre optic cable was connected two was between his digits, and with his other servo, he took hold of the cable, and carefully pulled it free. Error messages immediately popped on the screens, but the Polihexian hardly noticed them. He stared at the mech, a the exposed spark in his chasis and vented a profound sigh of relief when it continued to burn.

One by one, Jazz pulled each cable and cord that trapped the captive Praxian to the computer. More error messages popped up on the screens at the head of the berth, and he ignored them all. The only thing Jazz cared about was the mech under his servos, and as long as the spark in his exposed chassis burned, that was enough. Finally, the only thing remaining was the fuel line, and Jazz twisted it free as slowly as he could. Before any fuel could leak out, or some pollutant get in, he forced the intake’s cover back into place. Jazz wished he could cover the mech’s spark, give him that dignity but the plating for his chassis was long gone. His escape plans had not included rescuing a comatose Praxian, but the saboteur was an expert at adaptation. Careful of the poor mech’s doorwings, Jazz lived the mech from the berth.

A low, rough groan wheezed from the mech’s slack lipplates. Jazz stared down. The Praxian’s optics were dim, but not fully offline. There was no telling what sort of damage had been done to his processor, but the sound gave the saboteur a reason to hope. Before Jazz could even think of carrying the mech to safety, the saboteur had to do what he had come to Tarn to do. One by one he set his bombs, and the timer. With the nanokliks counting down, he eased the mech over his shoulders in a firebot’s carry and took hold of his arms and legs. This was really going to complicate matters, but Jazz refused to leave the mech behind, even if he expire in the Polihexian’s arms, the poor mech was not going to be left to Shockwave.

The look of surprise on Hound’s face as Jazz struggled through the uncooperative vault doors was worth a half smile. Without saying anything, the scout took the lead, the role Jazz had taken on their entry. There was a tingle as the servus-frame’s holograms descended. They had under two bream before the bombs went off, and attracted the skeleton crew’s attention. In total silence, the pair, or now trip, ran to the elevator. Of course it was offline, that was a given, but Jazz had planned for that. He had planned on them climbing the shaft prior to taking on an immobile captive, but no plan ever went with a hitch or two. Hound forced the doors, and hatch in the ceiling of the cab. Without a glyph he shimmied up first before reaching down for the Praxian.

It surprised Jazz that he hesitated. But for a nanoklik he did, since he had seen the Praxian plugged into that thing, he had taken responsibility over him, and passing him on to Hound, even for a few nanokliks felt… wrong. But there was no time for anxieties, and the saboteur pushed the mech into the servus-frame’s waiting arms. The moment the Praxian was through the whole, Jazz followed. He did not hesitate to take him back once he had joined Hound, standing on the cab. Besides, it made sense for Jazz to carry the mech. Hound could climb the elevator cable easily enough, but not with a mech in his arms, and while the climb would be a bit tricky for Jazz, he did not need the cable, the elevator wall would do fine.

“You think you can get him up?” Hound asked. The first glyphs either mech had spoken in joors.

“I got’m,” Jazz said. “Not like he weighs anythin’, no armour ‘n all.”

“Head up first,” the scout suggested. “I’ll follow and play catch if something goes wrong.”

“Good thinkin’ my mech,” the Polihexian replied.

This time, when he lifted the mech up, Jazz cradled him, chassis to chassis, and caging him against the wall as he climbed. In the back of his processor, the nanokliks counted ever perilously lower, but he paid it no mind. The climb felt the most precarious of any he had ever climbed, and Jazz’s spark was pulsing wildly in his chassis. He had no way to hold the mech as he climbed, both of his servos were magnetized to the wall as he inched up the shaft. His charge was limp in his lap, caged by his bent legs, and taunt arms. Jazz did not think he took a single intake for the entire climb, and he did not pause for even a fraction of a nanoklik, not until he reached the sealed door.

“I can’t open it, Hound,” Jazz said. “Get on up here.”

“On it,” Hound replied, scaling the elevator cable a few more metres. Unlike Jazz, he had no magnets to save him from injury or death at the bottom of the shaft. Instead he had to rely on acrobatics, and agility to reach for the narrow edge. It did not work. The cable did not have enough give to let the scout hold on, and reach the sealed door. “You’re going to have to give him to me.”

Before Jazz could go along with this, or come up with another plan, the door cracked open. A blaster was in Hound’s servo as he hung onto the cable with peds and servo. He did not fire as the doors were forced a little wider apart. Just as the Polihexian recognized the familiar spark pulsing in the hallway, the scout recognized their teammate’s scent. Hound stowed his gun again and waited until Bumblebee had pried the doors completely apart. With a cheery wave to the servus-frame, he stepped aside. Hound shimmied a little higher up the cable before making the jump. Even as his peds landed in the hall, Jazz visualized him plummeting. It was only when the scout reached to turned and crouched and reached for him that the saboteur dared to take an intake. He pulled himself, and the Praxian in his arms to the opening. They were almost out, the Praxian’s shoulders were just above floor level when the bombs went off. The ground shook violently as the contents of the vault were all but vapourized. Jazz magnetized his servos to the floor and forcibly pinned the mech to the elevator shaft as he held on to dear life. Jazz kept his optics offline as the world shook with the force of the series of blasts.

The spark against his chassis flared and a single servo lightly squeezed his shoulder. Jazz looked down as the shaking subsided, and saw the mech’s optics glow a little brighter. He bowed his helm to the mech’s.

“I got ya,” he promised as with Hound’s help, he climbed from the elevator shaft.

“Is that a Praxian?” Bumblebee asked, shocked.

“He was the super computer,” Jazz said. “Primus only knows how long he was hooked up to that thing.”

“Ratchet’s going to have some choice glyphs for that purple cogsucker,” Hound declared.

“Me too,” the saboteur added. “’N blades, ‘n bullets. We gotta move, they’ll be here in no time. Ya left the rest of my presents?”

“Ready for you to set them off,” the minibot replied.

They only made it rounded the corner when they spotted Cons. Handicapped by the mech in his arms, Jazz could only duck behind Hound as minibot and scout fired their blasters. Both mechs’ shots were true and the guards were scrap before they fell. Hound’s holograms gave them an advantage over the Cons, they held their fire when they saw Shockwave’s image, the Autobots did not. The four mech ran from the fortress, dodging guards as they did until they were safely beyond the walls. Tarn was crawling with Decepticons, and they were nowhere near safe yet. Jazz held the Praxian tight as they ran in through shadowy back alleys. He juggled the mech to take the remote from his subspace and with the push of a button, Jazz sent Shockwave’s fortress straight to the Pit.

The shockwave was enough to send the Autobots to their knees, and Jazz almost ate crud, preoccupied with keeping his hold on the limp mech. Once or twice he thought he felt the mech move, but he could not be certain. It was the reassuring heat of the Praxian’s spark that kept him hopeful. It was a strong, steady spark, and so long as it did not dim, there was hope for the mech. Ratchet had worked miracles before, four pieces and made a Bot whole again, the Polihexian had hope the medic could do that for this mech. He probably would not even complain about another patient. The old medic had been devastated and the sheer lack of survivors from Praxus. Bringing this one back to health would give him a little solace. They made it to their shuttle without running into any other Cons. But then, Jazz had been counting on them being distracted by the half wrecked and burning fortress.

Hound took the pilot seat without asking for an opinion, and Bee took the copilot seat, leaving Jazz in the back. For maybe a nanoklik he considered strapping the mech into the forth chair but he dismissed the idea out of turn. If he was even half aware, the Praxian would know he was freed from that living Pit, and Jazz imagined it would be a waking memory purge to be strapped into anything. So he strapped himself into his seat, and held the mech against his chassis. Through lift off, and ascent there was silence. Jazz looked out the window, unconsciously stroking the mech’s back as he let his field extend for the first time since he had approached the fortress. He did not know precisely when he realized the Praxian in his arms had come online. But at one moment the saboteur was looking out the window, the next he was looking down at the helm cradled against his neck and saw the mech’s blue optics glowing bright, and he felt the Praxian’s servo curl weakly against his own chassis.

“I got ya,” he said, unsure how much the mech understood, but letting his field speak his intentions, along with his glyphs. “Y’re safe.”

The Praxian let out a ragged sigh. His field, fluttered against Jazz’s. Relief. So much relief.

“What’s y’re designation?” Jazz asked.

Confusion… empty space.

“That’s alright,” the Polihexian said. “I’ll just call ya Prowl for now.”

A soft husky sound Jazz thought was a laugh was the answer. He chose to interpret it as a yes.


	23. Decadance - Cliffjumper/Mirage - Smut

Cliffjumper looked out at the dimly lit room. Blaster was pelting out tunes at audial splitting levels, and the ‘Bots were showing their approval by drinking and dancing without a thought or care. Strove lights washed over the dance. Along the walls, the booths were cast in shadow. Already more than three quarters overcharged, his friends amongst the other minibots were spinning about, around and in between their larger comrades. There was a cube in the red minibot’s servo but he had barely touched it. He was scowling, but it was as close to an impassive face as he could muster. No one noticed him, which was ideal, or they might have come over to chat, and Cliffjumper did not know how he would pull off coherent speech right now.

  
Below the line of the table, his left servo looked like it was holding tightly to nothing but thin air, and his spike was exposed, pressurized to the point it was almost painful. It was slick with lubricants and transfluids, and there was a puddle on his slightly open thighs, and the both below him. Hidden by the table, concealed by the dark, the minibot lightly rolled his hips as he left his cube on the table and dropped his servo to grip the blue kibble that stuck out the sides of his invisible lover’s slender hip, and pull him down. Mirage made a sweet, soft sound, just for him, hunched over his audial horns. The pretty noble tried to maintain his gentle rocking, but soon Cliffjumper had him swept up, pulling him roughly down each time he rolled his own hips up.

  
There was a considerably size different between them. Cliffjumper only reached the middle of the Towers mech’s abdomen. Mirage was gorgeous, and any sane mechanism would fantasize about ‘facing him, but early on, when it had only been a fantasy, the minibot had not been able to imagine how they might be compatible. Maybe he could take the other’s spike, and oh could he, but how could he do anything for Mirage, small as he was by comparison. It turned out he could do plenty, thanks to a mod that was standard amongst the pretty mech’s framekin. They were a licentious and indolent group, preferring to take maximum pleasure from any and all activities. Mirage could take the spike of a mechanisms almost double his size without pain, and he could take a spike as small as a minibot’s and gripped it hot and tight between those pretty white thighs.

  
Invisible, no one saw Mirage’s elegant servos tightly clasping Cliffjumper’s shoulders as he rode the smaller mech, his hot little valve rippling over the spike driving up into him. An image of that valve not looking so little, but stretched wide, transfluids and lubricants leaking out. The red mech licked his lipplates as that image brought his charge right up. Plans for the dark-cycle coming together, Cliffjumper’s rocking took up a frantic pace. He let go of one blue hip to grasp his lover’s spike, and milk it along with his thrust. A moan turned into a soft cry next to his helm, and Cliffjumper felt Mirage shaking. A few more thrusts, a few more strokes and the Towers mech spilled over his servo as he overloaded via both spike and felt. His molten heat contracted hard around the smaller mech’s spike, and Cliffjumper overloaded inside the noblemech, biting his lipplate to stop from calling out.

  
They sat like that a while, vents flared, intakes raspy. Cliffjumper wrapped his arms loosely around his taller lover’s waist, keeping their interface components flush as they regained their equilibrium. There was a chuckled huskily next to his audial horn, before a warm mouth covered it and suck lightly. Not even a klik after his overload, and the minibot felt his spike stir. There was no question he was going to overload in the Towers mech again, but he wanted a lot more, and Cliffjumper did not like his chances of getting away with that in the crowded mess hall. With a mischievous smirk, he unwrapped his arms from Mirage, but before the mech could dismount, he stroked the juicy edges of the spy’s valve, coating his digits with lubricant before slipping one alongside his spike, and curled it. Mirage’s whole frame shuddered.

  
“Were you planning on another round?” The Towers mech asked, with a pleasure laden rasp.

  
“I got plans, alright,” Cliffjumper whispered back. “They start with you stretched out on your berth while I work ya over in ‘n out.”

  
“Mm,” Mirage said, his valve rippled. “I think I like your plan.”


	24. Guarded By Shadows

Smokescreen was looking up at Prowl when he finished with the alert. He was afraid, his little brave spark was terribly scared. The originator stroked his mechling’s small helm and filled his field with reassurance. Bluestreak curled into him, suckling robustedly, benefiting from his originator’s open field more than Prowl might have expected. The room really was a mess but there was no time to tidy up. Optimus Prime and Jazz would be up in a matter of kliks and the act of tidying would only distress Skids and Camshaft who had been hard at work on their little fort. He would also have to unlatch Bluestreak and that would leave the newling bawling with hunger.

Prowl made no move to rise from the couch. What few kliks he had to prepare for their arrival, he was better off using them to steady himself. Optimus Prime would not have come with Jazz if the Ops mech was only sharing information on Crosscut or looking for answers. If the Prime was on his way up, there had to be something else. They would not be returning him to Praxus, though that fear did churn in his spark and tactical system, there was no way. Not only were these two good mechanisms, Jazz fiercely loyal, and Optimus Prime a passionate abolitionist, neither would send Prowl and his creations to what would amount to being his death. There had to be something else, and the prospect of the unknown made the tactician very nervous. He fought to keep his field reassuring, to keep his own anxieties locked inside. His creations did not be afraid.

“We have company, mechlings,” Prowl said at last. “Jazz, Smokescreen you did not meet him, but I believe Camshaft told you the story, he is on his way up to speak with me, as is Optimus Prime. You do not need to be afraid of them. They are friends to us.”

“I remember Optimus,” Smokescreen replied, softly. Patchy memories of Tyger Pax must have been coming to the forefront of his processor because the sparkling shivered with fear. “He kept us safe…”

“We are safe here,” the originator promised. But the mood had changed in an instant as Camshaft and Skids sensed their brother’s anxiety. They forgot their game and piled onto the couch, just as their eldest brother slipped down. Camshaft took his place as Skids slid over, lay over him, with his helm in their originator’s lap.

“I’ll answer the door,” his eldest declared, and he marched to the door. That was Smokescreen, he was afraid, and so he was stubbornly determine to face it.

A ping came, a nanoklik later, and Prowl was unexpectedly relief to see it came from Jazz. Really, he had not doubted the security drone, but perhaps he actually had. Without raising a digit he sent a command to the door, and his lock disengaged. Prowl watched Smokescreen press his servo against the door, and it opened. The defensive protocols engaged within him, and he had to stop himself from bolting up, and lunging for the door, weapon drawn, as he saw the two adult mechs tower over his creation. Before he could call Smokescreen over to him, or address his guests at all, Prowl saw Jazz kneel, and extend his servo to his sparkling.

There was a flutter of something in the Praxian’s spark that he could not explain as the saboteur introduced himself to Smokescreen, treated him like a mature mech, not the sparkling he was. Clearly feeling tickled at this treatment, Smokescreen bounded back into the living room, leading the visitors in. Despite how often he had interacted with the Prime, he seemed that much bigger compared to Smokescreen, compared to all of them. Jazz looked harmless standing next to him, but that would have been a lie. Once again Prowl hesitated. It would have been appropriate to stand, to greet his guests.

“Don’t disturbed the little ones,” Optimus Prime ordered. “They’ve developed so much since I saw them.”

“It is something new every mega-cycle, Sir,” Prowl replied. “Mechlings, you remember Jazz? And Optimus Prime?”

The younger sparklings nodded shyly. Both a little awed and intimidated by the two guests. Even as it occurred to Prowl, Jazz simply dropped crossed legged on the floor, and Optimus Prime, of all the mechanisms followed his lead. Both mech took care not to disturb the fort, and for some reason that mattered so much to Prowl. Smokescreen mimicked their guests and sat at his originator’s peds. Slowly, Camshaft and Skids loosened up, and perked up. They did not leave the couch and Prowl but they sitting up, doorwings swept up in an open posture of curiosity, not sharply pointed in a gesture of fear.

“What can I do for you, Sir?” The Praxian asked. “Jazz?”

“Sorta more what we can do for ya,” Jazz replied.

“There is a family habsuite that’ll be available shortly in the complex on base,” Optimus explained, and Prowl felt his tank twist. “I understand you have concerns about the status of your family being revealed. I respect them, but I think you will be safest, and they will be safest within the base, and known to our brother and sister Autobots. There is a school on base, staffed by Autobots or the kin of enlisted mechanisms, and there are multiple youngling and sparkling centres, all staffed by thoroughly vetted caretakers. They will be guarded, nurtured and safe. You will be safe.”

“Autobots will judge you for allowing me to enlist,” Prowl said, softly. “You will be pressured to put me on leave.”

“I’ve been judged for worse,” the Prime replied. “I won’t bow to pressure. I understand you need to serve your function. The best way for creations to grow happy and healthy is even their originator is.”

“’M in the same complex,” Jazz added. “There are lots o’ young families, plenty o’ single ‘creator families. It’d be easy for ya to put in half-cycles. There’d be plenty o’ sparklings for them to play with. It’d be good for all o’ ya.”

“I wonder who built this fine fortification?” Optimus said.

“We did!” Camshaft exclaimed and he tugged Skids along as he dove off the couch, excited to show off their work. Optimus climbed to his peds, more graceful than a mech his size ought to be.

“Why don’t you tell me about it?” The Prime suggested. In that instance, Prowl was completely abandoned by his creations, save Bluestreak, even Smokescreen went over to the fort. The originator’s spark flared. Smokescreen had not felt save to leave his side in ‘cycles.”

“Can ya tell me ya feel safe here?” Jazz asked softly as he sat down on the opposite side of the couch.

“No,” Prowl replied, truthfully.

“I got ‘Raj on the fragger, he ain’t gonna move ‘round Iacon without that mech on his tail,” the Polihexian revealed. “But we both know that ain’t enough. Ya aren’t gonna be able to convince yerself to send Smokescreen back to that school. Ya ain’t gonna be able to walk ‘round this district without lookin’ over ya shoulder. It’s a lousy way to live. We’ll pass it off as a transfer, might even through Crosscut off for a bit if he’s gotten sweet on someone in the school’s office.”

“I hate this,” the Praxian sighed. “I feel like a turbofox chased into a burrow.”

“Burrows are okay, so long as ya got a second exit,” Jazz said. “Complex has plenty. I’ll ya all o’ them… What do ya say, neighbours?”

“Neighbours,” Prowl replied. When all was said and done, there really was no other answer.


	25. Amalgus - The Original Plot

Someone was coming.

Staked out in the clearing, Prowl could not see the frame, but he was Praxian and he paid very little attention the feed from his optics. Where they saw only blackness, under the moonless sky, his doorwings saw the vibrations of a bipedal frame inching soundlessly through the forest. Though it was hopeless, Prowl strained against his bonds, ignoring the burn as the energon ropes dug into the seams at his wrists and chaffed against his vulnerable protoform. It didn’t matter than his ATS told him there was no purpose to his struggles, primitive fear overruled the level control of his tactical systems and the he continued to struggle.

Somewhere behind him, the hunters were waiting. They had not moved in joors and Prowl half hoped that they had fallen into recharge. He thought of the traps hidden in in the titanium trees and those dotting around the stake he was bound to. The hunters were counting on their prey falling a foul of one of these traps. If it did not, Prowl did not relish being caught between the hunters and the Amalgus.

Prowl never even considered the notion that the frame might be a friend come to rescue him. The Praxian’s own partner was the reason he now found himself staked out, a sheepitron laid out for the slaughter. Barricade would certainly have told their precinct that Prowl had fallen victim of the same pestilence that had claimed his carrier and that his frame had been melted down to avoid transmission of the infection to anyone else. They would mourn his skills though not him. They would not question Barricade. They would not search for Prowl.

Terror filled the Praxian’s spark as a dark figure slid into the clearing, keeping in the shadows cast by the trees. Slowly, the hunched frame inched closer and closer to Prowl in the centre of the clearing. As though he could see them, the Amalgus, avoid each trap with ease. He circled the stake, no doubt sizing up the bait use to lure him out, when he rounded to Prowl’s front again, the Praxian whispered.

“If you save my brother from the hunters, I will give you anything. My energon, my frame, my spark, whatever you will, save him and I will give it to you.”

The Amalgus looked up at Prowl’s faceplates as the Praxian spoke, a brightly lit blue optic band lit up pale grey faceplates. It was too dark for Prowl to make out the colours of the Amalgus’s frame though his doorwings gave him a rough sense of his shape. Standing straight from his hunch the Amalgus leaned in, his nasal ridge nearly brushing Prowl’s. He leaned back, a bemused smirk forming on his lipplates.

A quick nod of acceptance and the Amalgus slunk back into the darkness, disappearing into the wood behind Prowl. He had known. The Amalgus had known where the hunters were before he had approached the trapped Enforcer.

Relief soothed the terror in the Praxian’s spark. He leaned his helm back against the post, letting his optics dim. It was a gamble, a desperate one at that, but it was the only chip Prowl had to play. If he could keep Bluestreak safe, whatever the Amalgus demanded of him would be worth the price.


	26. Amalgus - The Original Plot

There had been no need to remove the bait’s modesty panel. It was not seals that drew amalgii to purii, but the scent, and the aura of an untouched spark. Seals could be faked, and cheap hunters often had their volunteer bait’s seals replaced prior to the hunt. That trick never worked, though Jazz had seen it done again and again. Beyond that, a mechanism could have their seals intact but no longer be a purus in the sights of the Amalgii. Despite this mech’s age, he was pure, untouched even by his own servos. Not to say he was anywhere close to ancient, but the Praxian was plenty old enough to have made his way through a few berths, and a few overloads. But there was no question, the bait had a virginal spark.

Why? The question stirred in the saboteur’s proessor. With the hunters safely asleep, it was safe enough for Jazz to take his time, scoping out the clearing, and the bait. These were not professional hunters, no where close. None had been assigned watch, and so camped out together in the woods just behind the staked out Praxian, they had all each assumed someone else in their group would be awake, and so it would be safe enough to offline their optics, just of a klik. Wanna-be hunters like these were no threat to Jazz. They were a threat to the newly matured amongst his kin, and that’s why Jazz was here. The scent of a purus only had an intoxicating pull on the youngest adults, those in their first vorns of maturity. Pure sparks had long lost their draw for Jazz, and that was why he was here. He was a saboteur, his role in his community was the wander the world, and to sabotage hunts like this, and Jazz was very good at his job.

In the shadows of towering titanium, and chrome alloy ash trees, Jazz shifted. The smooth curve of his white and blue chassis flattened and went silver, his limps stretched and he gained a few meters in height. At his shoulders the armour extended into sharp points, and a crown of sharp points circled in helm, disguising his audial horns. There was always one feature that could not fully shift, and for the saboteur that was his horns. He could gain height, and mass, and lose it, but the audial horns always remained in some form. He looked like a Kaonite, not at all like the Polihexian form he preferred. The final touch was the narrow optical band that replaced his visor. Jazz stretched out the kinks that always came with a transfiguration, and he bared his fangs. Now, he was ready.

He circled the clearing a second time, ensuring that the hunters remained deep in recharge. As he circled,Jazz caught another scent he had missed before. Pure but two young to draw an amalgus. Was it one of the hunters’ whelps, or something more nefarious? Could these fools be planning on using a sparkling as the next lure should this mech fail? The amalgus frowned. If they were kitted for a hunt surely they had done enough research to know that a sparkling would never draw on of his kind? Maybe they were just idiots on a get rich quick scheme, They would not have been the first.   


Was this Praxian willing bait, or had he been kidnapped? That was an important question and Jazz could not go much further until he had an answer. Slowly he crept closer. Even in the dark his optics could pick up the some of the finer details if the mech’s frame. Enforcer decals made the mech an odd choice of bait, and more of a threat if he was a willing pawn. But as the amalgus slipped closer, he scented mechfluid. This mech had been struggling against his bonds long enough to abrade the energon lines in his wrists. It painted a pretty obvious picture, the Praxian was not willing bait.  


If these hunters did not catch an amalgus this dark-cycle the odds were they would rape the Enforcer before killing him. Some might have been inclined just to kill the mech, but frustrated lust oozed from three of the recharging hunter. Jazz had no doubt they would brutalize the Enforcer. There was no way they would release him alive, not an Enforcer. Which meant Jazz could not just sabotage the traps, and ruin the hunt. He had to play mech in shining armour, or be haunted by killed for the rest of his vorns. Jazz stepped from the shadows but remained crouched. He knew the precise moment when when the Praxian spotted him, he heard the hitch in his ventilation, and though the mech’s expression did not exactly change, his optics brightened as his frame stiffened. 

Jazz crept closer, stepped neatly around the first set of traps. He saw the Praxian’s optics on him, bright and and clear. Oh he was afraid, this rather handsome mech was definitely terrified, but he was good at hiding it. But Jazz could smell. The mech made no sound, did not raise the alarm. Definitely not a willing bait, not that there had been a doubt in the amalgus’ processor by this point. Stepping around another trap, Jazz finally got a good look at the purus. Those were definitely Enforcer glyphs, and they marked him as an investigator… Well, the saboteur wondered, perhaps he could make use of this. He circled the stake and stopped in front of the Praxian. But before he could get any closer the mech spoke in an almost inaudible whisper.

“If you save my brother from the hunters, I will give you anything. My energon, my frame, my spark, whatever you will, save him and I will give it to you.”

Now that was perfect. Jazz stepped over a trap and straightened up. For a nanoklik he stood olfactory ridge to olfactory ridge with the mech. This close, he could hear the frantic pulse of the purus’ untouched spark. Despite the mech’s fear, he had kept both his expression and his voice schooled, and as Jazz stepped back, he smiled. Now this was a mech after his own spark. Tied up, splayed open to be a monster’s feast and this mech did not even flinch. He nodded his helm, and slipped back towards the tree line. As he walk back around to the recharging hunters, he dropped a few traps of his own. There would be no time to sabotage the traps one by one, so this called for a considerably bigger bang. 


	27. Amalgus - The Original Plot

Jazz slunk through the dark forest, a Cheshire grin on his faceplates. He had been ready to offer the mech a deal, thought he would have freed him anyways regardless, the Amalgus was not willing to be an accessory to rape and to murder, but the fact that the Praxian had offered it himself was even better. The sparkling was more of an advantage than a detraction. This mech would be more willing to agree to Jazz’s demands if his brother was safe, and safe the Amalgus would ensure he be. Short of the camp, the saboteur stopped. The Kaonite shape would be more of a burden than an advantage tiptoeing around the sleeping hunters. Delicate work that this would be, the Amalgus elected to take what he considered to be his natural frame. Technically it was, more or less. His originator had been Polihexian, his progenitor an Amalgus, and offspring of such pairings often favourite their originator when it came to frame time. The change back always went quicker, and Jazz dropped the height and mass in nanokliks, there might have been ped prints except the saboteur was too good at this work to leave tracks.

As he had hoped, the hunting party were all deep in recharge. Jazz stepped passed a tankformer, and then a rotary. He saw empty canisters of engex and oil and guessed that these hunters might have made the common mistake of getting overcharged during the long wait. All the better for him. Just between the rotary, and another hunter, alt-mode unknown, he saw the small form of a Praxian sparkling. Crouching, just centimetres from the nearest hunter, Jazz placed his servo firmly, but gently over the sparkling’s mouth. The little thing jolted awake. He was, at the Amalgus’ best guess a late second tier sparkling, old enough to be reasonable, thank Adaptus for small miracles. Under his servo, the mechling quivered with fear, brilliant blue optics wide, and full of tears. The saboteur pressed a single digit to his own lipplates and nodded his helm, the little Praxian nodded his helm against Jazz’s servo. That was all the assurance, the Amalgus needed, and he scooped the mechling up, and leaving a trap of his own behind, he return from whence he came. Around the rotary, passed the tank, in his arms, the sparkling shivered with fear, and Jazz held him tight, in part to prevent his clattering plating from making enough noise to wake the hunters.

Once Jazz had stepped into the forest, he lightened his hold, and the mechling wrapped his arms around the Amalgus’ neck, clinging tightly, his scared little spark pulsed rapidly in his spark chamber, and he buried his face under Jazz’s chin. Poor bitlet. The Amalgus softly crooned, and gently stroked the sparkling’s back as he made his way back to the staked out adult. Brothers? While the age difference was not exactly unheard of, the Enforcer was well old enough to be this mechling’s procreator, and yet the mech had called this little sparkling his brother. Somewhere, his procreators were probably worried, unless they had gone to the well, in which case, the bait was probably his caretaker. Jazz did not rush into the clearing, though he did feel a sense of urgency, he needed to plant his traps. When he had arrived on the seen, he had left some scattered through the woods on all sides, but a quick get away in this case called for a few more. Once this was done, he was going to need to see Wheeljack about getting a few more, his stash was running low.

“Prowl!” The sparkling said, wincing when it came out a little louder than a whisper. Jazz stopped and listened, but the hunters did not barely stirred. He did not move until they all settled back into deeper recharges.

“Can ya ride on my back, bitlet?” Jazz asked, in a proper whisper.

The mechling nodded and Jazz lifted him, and swung him around. Once he was confident that the sparkling had a good hold on his neck, andwaist, Jazz entered the clearing. As the Praxian saw him, he tensed, but of course, he had not seen a Polihexian before, but when he saw the bitlet looking over Jazz’s shoulder, he relaxed, relief easily teeked in his field. There was still fear, and he was right to be afraid, he had made a deal with a creature whose kin were reputed to have an appetite for virgins. Some stories suggested Amalgii like the taste of virgin sparks, and frames, that they were akin to sparkeaters. Most of the stoires, however spoke of purii being stolen from their homes, off the streets, either never to be seen again, or returned, sullied, with their forges full with the monster’s spawn. That last bit was almost always a fallacy. Creations were treasured, and fiercely guarded by Amalgii. If a former purus returned home, heavy with spark, after an encounter with an Amalgus, there would be a mech at his or her side, perhaps playing noble rescuer. In all cases, this would actually be an Amalgus, one who had left his kin to be with the one he and taken and loved. This was what Jazz’s progenitor had done.

“Can ya run?” Jazz asked the bound mech, in a whisper. The mech nodded, and the saboteur smiled. “’M gonna cut ya loose. It’s gonna set off one o’ their booby traps. Ran for the woods, I’ll be behind ya.”

“Do you intend to fight them?” The Enforcer asked, looking down, not at the saboteur but at his brother.

“No,” the Amalgus replied. “No, I ain’t stupid. Want ya outta the way when I set off some traps of my own. Slagtards… Sorry… They ain’t gonna make it far.”

Crouched between traps, Jazz cut the bonds around the mech’s peds first, than he stood straight, on the toes of his peds, and he braced himself, a servo on the Praxian’s shoulder, as he stretched his arm up, energon dagger clutched in his servo. Against the mech’s audials, he counted. One. Two. And the Enforcer fell against him. Jazz caught the mech before he could trigger one of the explosive traps at the base of the stake. He tossed the mech out into the clearing, away from the traps as an alarm blazed. The mech stumbled, but kept his peds, and ran, looking over at Jazz, at his brother. Energon dagger traded out for a remoted, the Amalgus pressed a quick succession and the first of his traps, the one he had left on the mechling’s berthroll, exploded with a blinding and deafening flash. Now he ran, at the edge of the woods, the Praxian waited. Jazz did not begrudge him. When he reached the mech, he turned and tossed a grenade into the clearing. It landed amongst the traps at the stake, setting them off with a startling blast.

“Let’s go,” Jazz ordered, pulling the Enforcer buy the arm.

They had not run far before there was another brilliant flash to their backs. Jazz did not pause to confirm his booby traps and bombs at worked, he trusted his work, what mattered now was getting some distance from the five hunters. At some point, he let go of the Enforcer’s arm, trusting him to keep the pace. He did, and with more ease than Jazz might have thought. As Alpha Centaurii rose in the sky, the trio broke from the tree line. The Praxian slowed, staring at the Mithric Sea. Jazz stopped beside him. They had been running for joors, and a rest was certainly warranted. On his back, the mechling riggled, clearly wanting down, and the Amalgus let him. With a whoop of joy, he darted around Jazz and jumped into the Enforcer’s arms, and immediately started to cry.

“Prowl, I was so scared,” the little mech whimpered. “I thought you were going to be eaten, or… worse! They were evil mechs! Evil!”

“They were, but they are well behind us,” the elder, obviously designated Prowl, said. “Are you alright, Bluestreak?”

“I’m okay,” Bluestreak replied. “Tired.”

“Some fuel would do us all good,” Jazz interrupted, and he took two cubes from his subspace. “Here. Just a mid grade… ‘m guessin’ they emptied your subspace.”

“Indeed,” Prowl said. “Thank you… I owe you a debt.”

“Ya do, but we’ll worry ‘bout that in a bit,” the Amalgus replied. “There’s a ferry o’er the Mithric Sea, ‘n we’re gonna be on it. Y’re a long way from Praxus.”

“Farther than I released,” the Enforcer said. “They kept us in a trailer, without windows, for the journey.”

“Looks like they rattled y’re helm a bit,” Jazz observed, reaching a servo to touch a dent at the side of the Praxian’s helm. There were other dents on his frame, and the abrasions on his wrists and ankles.

“I am functional,” Prowl said.

“Glad to hear it,” the saboteur replied. “Prowl, I guess?”

“That is correct,” the Praxian confirmed. “My brother is Bluestreak.”

“’M Jazz,” he replied. “When we’re on the ferry, I’ll explain where ‘m taken ya. If ya run, I won’t chase ya, but ya’ll be on yer own.”

“I owe you a debt,” Prowl said. “And I will repay it. I gave my glyph.”


	28. Amalgus - The Original Plot

He did not run. It was not a sense of duty or honour that served as the primary motivating factor in this choice. Rather it was the results of the sims he had run in his ATS. While there was no guarantee that they would encounter the hunters if they fled south to Praxus but the odds were nowhere near low enough to risk it. So Prowl carried Bluestreak, his brother was too exhausted to walk on his own, the potential ramifications of his decision weighing on his processor. What did the Enforcer have to over this… mech… What price was he to pay?

The gestalt had been planning to rape him after they had captured their amalgus. One, the rotary had gone into explicit detail about all the vile things he had intended to do. Swindle, as Barricade had called the small of the gestalt brothers, had suggested filming it. A snuff film starring an Enforcer was bound to bring in credits. Prowl did not shudder at the memory, but he thought he would have memory purges for quartexes to come.

If the amalgus only wanted his seals, if he did not crave mechfluid and pain Prowl did not think he would altogether mind, his seals had never mattered to him. But if he wanted to kindle, the Praxian felt more perturbed by this idea than other’s might have guessed. He was not fit to create. A simple interface seemed like an unlikely payment. Why would the amalgus want to take the mega-cycles long journey across the Mithric Sea only to interface. There was a reason this… mech… was taking them farther and still farther from Praxus but Prowl had no satisfactory guess, and it was causing him no end of stress.

To his relief and his dread, they arrived at the dock after only another joor’s walk. The distance would have been traveled faster in their alt modes but the terrain along the shore was too uneven for his alt mode… and did Amalgii have alt modes? It hardly mattered. Prowl was tired, and sore but he could walk still kilometers more. Enforcer training had only added to his natural endurance, and tolerance for pain. Bluestreak was limp in his arms, he had fallen onto recharge early in their walk, and the elder brother was careful motto jostle him. He needed his recharge.

“Stay here,” the amalgus ordered. “’M gonna get our tickets.

Prowl did as he was instructed. He watched this… alright he really needed to think of the amalgus by his designation. He watched Jazz amble over to the ticket seller, and chat. By the way the amalgus was leaning on the counter, and laughing with the taller mechanisms, the Enforcer suspected he knew this mech well. Did that mean this mech was another amalgus? Could that mean that any number of these mechanisms queuing for the ferry were amalgii too? The Praxian felt even less at ease with this thought than he had been, and he had been anything but at ease. If this Jazz did not want his seals, could one of the others? Was he going to have to ward off ardent amalgii, while guarding his brother, for the course of this journey. It was not an appealing prospect.

Fearful for Bluestreak, and for himself, Prowl kept himself apart from the mechanism milling about, and kept that amalgus in sight. Periodically, Jazz looked over his shoulder at him, keeping himself safe, or ensuring he had not run? The mech had said he would not chase Prowl, but the Praxian was not inclined to take the mech at his glyph. So where did that leave him? He and Bluestreak were all but dependent on Jazz’s honour, something he may or may not have. But their chances of surviving this… adventure, to Prowl’s best estimation meant keeping the amalgus’ company.

Praxus alone was not safe. Barricade and Sideways were a threat, one Prowl would have to figure out how to address. His uncle and other kin were something of a threat as well. Smokescreen was the only mech in Praxus who the Enforcer knew he could trust, and his elder cousin did not have enough influence to be much of a help just yet. His originator still lived, Prowl knew this in his spark, but for how much longer. A wave of sadness filled him. Camshaft had been imperfect, but ultimately a supportive originator, and one blessed with considerable influence. When he did return, reveal that he lived to his Enforcer commanders, would they welcome him back, and would they address Barricade’s treasury, or would they somehow absolve him?

“We can board now,” Jazz declared when he returned. “This way, we’re on the lower deck, crew quarters.”

“Do you work for the ferry?” Prowl asked, confused by this announcement.

“Nah, but ‘m on it least a dozen times a stellar-cycle,” the amalgus explained. “Plenty o’ my kin gonna be on board. ‘N they’re already gonna be eyeing ya, covertly, o’ course. Ferry’s got rules, anyone below deck is off limits, come on, let’s go. We got a deal to hash out.”


	29. Transit of Sparks

The light-cycle had long begun before Ratchet and his team exited the operating theater. Ratchet saw Jazz watching, the Twins lingering nearby, and made his way over. He looked exhausted, but there was no grief or resignation on his faceplates and there was only one explanation for that, Prowl was alive. Jazz swung his helm over to the Twins and grinned like a fool. Sideswipe enveloped his moody twin in a side hug before releasing him and they eased their way over to stand with Jazz. They stopped at either side of the Polihexian, crisscrossed their arms over his shoulders, and shared the saboteur’s joy.

“Mech’s too stubborn to die,” Ratchet sighed. “Thank frag for that. They’re getting him into a CR chamber now, hopefully that’ll finish the job.”

“Hopefully?” Jazz asked.

“He’s resisting stasis,” the medic explained. “Not uncommon with injured origins post emergence. They know they’ve got a bitlet to take care of, and those protocols are difficult to suppress. I’ve got the strongest medical locks I have on him. If he doesn’t settle in the chamber it’ll be touchier, more surgeries, and more chance for infection.”

“Even in stasis Prowl’s giving you the run around,” Sideswipe said.

“That’s Prowl,” Jazz declared.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else,” Ratchet replied. “I should’ve dropped my tools and let’m go three times… proper triage protocols when we’ve got so many injured. But as long as he’s fighting…”

“Triage be damned,” the Polihexian said. “Y’ll fight’m from the brink, even if he gives up. ‘Cause ya know he’s got Smokey.”

“You’ll smack Unicron with a wrench and drag him back,” Sunstreaker concluded. “Because you’re too stubborn to let him die.”

“Frag me if you aren’t right,” the old medic sighed. “And I can’t feel guilty for it.”

“Can I see’m?” Jazz asked.

“Sure,” Ratchet said. “Fix It will be moving the incubator in the ICU suite I’ve put him in. We’re hoping it help them both settle. We’re following hyper-cleaning protocols, both of them are vulnerable to rust and other contaminants.”

“I’ll do what I gotta,” the saboteur replied. “Just wanna see’m.”

Before Jazz could enter the ICU suite, he had to decontaminate. The powerful solvents made his plating itch but the discomfort was worth it. Ratchet’s prognosis had not be all that positive. There was a battle for the tactician’s life in the works, and Jazz wanted to let Prowl know that he was rooting for him, and always would be. Fix It was in the room when the saboteur entered. He was fussing over the incubator. Compelled by caretaker protocols, Jazz hesitantly inched his way over to the medic and newling. Afraid to mess anything up, he kept his servos behind his back and peered into the containment unit. Smokescreen was recharging, servos curled up at his helm, and a feeding line plugged into his abdomen. It was a clinical set up. It was frightening.

“First Aid mentioned the bitlet is imprinted on ya, that right?” Fix It asked

“That’s right,” Jazz replied, added anxiously. “First Aid said it was good thing?”

“It is,” the Polihexian medic confirmed. “I’d like to set up a schedule with ya to do some frame to frame to with him. Seems like a simple thing but premature newlings do markedly better when they have regular cuddles.”

“Whate’er ya wanna schedule me, I’ll be here,” the saboteur replied. “I can’t go into the field right now. Codin’ is screwin’ with me.”

“I was hoping ya’d say that,” Fix It said. “Caretaker protocols are rough to get used to. One of the hardest parts of medical training.”

“How’d ya learn to manage,” Jazz asked.

“The coding in medics is a bit different, and ya learn to compartmentalize,” the other Polihexian explained. “Ya fight for yer patients, and it hurts like the Pit when ya lose one, but ya need to learn to move on, just the next klik because there’s another patient.”

“Does Smokey got a good shot?” the new caretaker asked.

“A brilliant one,” Fix It replied, smiling at the bitlet in the incubator. “He isn’t critically premature. There’s a chance of complications, there always is but after a couple of orns on a feeding line he’ll be strong enough to suck. I’m asking around for any caretakers or procreators with extra innermost energon to donate. The synthetic sparkling grade will do, but there’s nothing better than innermost energon.”

“Hope someone steps up,” Jazz said. “Problem with bein’ Polihexian, ya didn’t even bother askin’ me.”

“No,” the medic replied. “That was something I don’t miss. I’ll leave ya alone for a bit. I’m thinking ya want to visit with our other patient.”

“I do, thanks,” the saboteur said. “’M still havin’ a hard time believin’ he’s pulled through this far.”

“Talk to him,” Fix It advised. “Let him know y’re taking care of Smokescreen. It won’t necessarily stop him from fighting stasis, but on a subliminal level, it might reassure him. The fact that he can fight stasis at all, considering his injuries says a lot for his strength. He’ll need ever drop of it.”

Once the medic left, Jazz turned to the CR chamber containing his sometimes lover, and perhaps most precious friend. All the armour had been stripped from Prowl’s frame, ensuring that the repair nanites would focus their work on the critically damaged protoform. Weld lines were clearly visible, ugly slashes on the Praxian’s doorwing, and chassis. His optics fell on the flat plating below Prowl’s spark chamber. He had expected it to be concave, the forge removed, but to Jazz’ surprise the component remained. The mechfluid that had pumped so horrifically from the tactician’s frame must have been from the knife wound, or at least the worst of it. Maybe that surgery was still coming, maybe Ratchet had not wanted to risk another avenue of infection. What did the Polihexian know? He killed things, he did not heal them.

To his optics, Prowl did not look alive. The only sign of live was the the red of his chevron, and Jazz was immensely grateful for that colourful piece of kibble. He pressed his servo to the glass and looked at the tubes and wires protruding from his friend/lover’s frame, wiring him to the CR chamber. It was ugly, and frightening, and he hated the look of it all, but they ensured Prowl’s frame was stable, and so he suffered the sight them. Jazz released the vent he did not know he had been holding.

“He’s perfect,” the saboteur said. “Just perfect, strong ‘n resilient like his origin. Fix It’s gonna make sure he does just fine. Ratchet’s gonna do the same for ya. Rest Prowl. Just rest. No one’s gonna touch your bitlet. Sunny ‘n Sides ain’t gonna let it happen. I ain’t gonna let it happen.”


End file.
